All Hail to the King
by d'elfe
Summary: Frances is the Keeper of Time. This means she gets send through space and time to fix the little mishaps of history to keep the timeline from going haywire. The only issue is: she had no idea what her mission is, and lands in Scotland, near Hadrien wall, without a clue about what she's supposed to do.
1. Bitter disappointment - Reviewed

**_Hello dear readers and welcome to this fiction. As per my last review, I realise I have been remiss in indicating a few facts that might enlighten you regarding this story. Frances had inherited a magical necklace that makes her 'The Keeper of Time' (see story bearing the same name). Her first travel, to ancient Roma (movie Gladiator) wasn't the best of vacation._**

**_Her second adventure took her to middle earth, Rivendell. She fought in the war of the ring, fell in love with Legolas, and was taught by the twin sons of Elrond to wield a blade and track in the wild. Unfortunately, she had to get back to earth as the injuries she'd sustained at the black gate nearly killed her. Ever since, Frances is trying to get back to Legolas._**

**_The extend of Frances' travels and adventures is listed in my profile, don't hesitate to take a look and ask questions about it. And now, on into the story._**

For the life of him, Tristan wouldn't tell what he had seen. Blinking a few times, his greyish eyes strained on the spot that had been, a mere moment before, an empty patch in the woods. Yet, now laid a young woman, a slip of a girl really, sporting a battle-worn leather armour, a bow strapped to her back, a sword at her hip. The strong wind coming from the cliff, loaded with snow flakes, engulfed in her cloak, playing with the reddish strands of her hair. The rest of it, secured in a tight braid, tumbled down her back to her waist. She looked like a vengeful spirit as she knelt there, regaining her balance from … her arrival?

Tristan blinked once more, holding his breath. That was it, all those years of service had eventually finished the job; he was hallucinating. Madness had overtaken his mind, for there was no other explanation possible. In Sarmatia, they believed in ghosts and fairies, in demons and spirits. Shaman taught them from infancy to fear evil spirits and revere the God of fire the greatest of all. In the Yazygue tribe, red hair was scarce, but revered for its link to fire. Tristan grew up with those stories, before those horrid Romans took him away. Yet, he had never come across a spirit. And this girl looked suspiciously alive, from flesh and bones. She couldn't be human, though, he was sure of it, for she had just appeared in a blinding blue light. The slight tingle still burning his eyes was a blatant testimony.

The girl stood, taking in the surroundings, her feet planted in the ground. Unmoving, her gaze intense as it roamed the forest. At first hopeful, her features gradually turned sad. And then, unexpectedly, her gaze found his, albeit he was concealed behind branches and trees. She held it, her hazel eyes firm, nearly commanding him to come out. And, enthralled by the possibility of her magical power, the scout complied. The girl's hand gracefully leapt to the hilt of her sword, but she did not unsheathe it. Albeit terribly confused, Tristan seized his dagger. It would take barely the time for her to exhale before he could bury it in her heart, just one flick of his wrist and she'd be dead. Unless … she was a witch.

Her eyes roamed across his equipment, his garment, and at last, his face. Her expression, unreadable at first, changed to disappointment as she spotted his bow. The fear he seek to instill with his ruthless appearance reflected in her gaze. Good. Still, she didn't turn around to flee the coldhearted killer that he was. Tristan's feet stopped on their own, away from the girl, assessing her level of threat. Should he dispose of her before the arrival of his fellow brothers? Or let her live? Arthur would, without a doubt, be furious if he harmed a young woman without any proof. For she was no wench, with such posture and refined feature. No Woad either, of this he was sure – the high cheekbones, the reddish hair, her thick clothes didn't match – yet she had been using blue magic.

Her voice eventually called to him, its quietness surprising for he was expecting something more … hysteric? Girly? Noisy?

— "Good day, sir. Could you indicate me where I am? I am afraid I got lost."

Tristan nearly snorted. Got lost indeed, in a haze of blue light? But he refrained from doing so, still wondering if he had gone crazy, and was imagining things.

— "You are just south of Hadrien's wall, twenty leagues from the first village to the east."

Blood drained from the witch's face, her eyes losing their sharpness as she seemed to struggle for breath. She took a step back, and another, as if impaled by a spear. Tristan flinched, and the woman froze, ready to fight, ready to die, her jaw set in a fit of rage he could not understand. Her voice was deadened as she struggled to utter more words, a little bow addressed to him. It was so strange to witness politeness in a spirit.

— "You have my thanks"

And then she left, turning from the dusty track, disappearing along the cliff. Stunned, Tristan let her go. Obviously, the woman was crazy. The scout's eyes followed her silhouette as she progressed, snowflakes dancing around her, her feet nearly silent on the frozen ground. Had the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach not bothered him, Tristan might have praised her ability for stealth. His own feet followed cautiously, as if stalking his prey, silent and unseen. A piercing cry let him know that Hawk was calling. The bird had probably spotted something; he needed to go.

The young woman didn't even flinch at the shrill cry, admiring the view of his friend circling high in the sky, above the fall, away from the summit of the tallest trees. From the smallest moment, Tristan though she was going to fling herself from the cliff but a sharp movement backwards sent her to her knees. And then she collapsed, shoulders moving silently, sobs muffled into her fists, as if despair had, this time, gained the upper ground. Her cloak[1] settled around her, shielding her from prying eyes as it seemed to reflect the colours of the forest. How peculiar! Never before had he seen such good concealing garment! It left no doubt now; she was a witch !

Nonetheless, Tristan couldn't linger. Not that he wanted to. The scout snorted. The lady probably wasn't the biggest threat on their path, no matter how incredible her appearance had been. If she truly was a spirit of the forest, let the forest take care of her. She'd be buried in no time in snow; her well-being was none of his business.

Frances stayed prostrated for hours, the few snowflakes dancing around her as she cried. She had known, the instant she landed in this cursed place, that she wasn't in middle earth. Her link to Legolas, interrogated at once, did not tingle; it was as weak as ever. Three years waiting for the Valar to send her back to middle earth, to grant her to see him once more, to dull the ache in her bones, in her heart from his absence! Three years waiting, and the crazy hope that had engulfed her at seeing the gem from her necklace shine again, crushed at the very instant of her arrival! Frances wanted to scream, to yell at the Valar for being so cruel, for asking more of her when she had nothing more to give. For a moment, she almost flung herself down the cliff. Death would have been a nice release, a welcome respite after the last three years of dull life in her own 21st century. But the memory of her loved ones – her family would never know how she died - stilled her movement at the very last moment, and she landed harshly on the ground. Her parents, her cousin, her friends would have to take the mantle of sadness. She couldn't do that, especially to her father who had lost a brother already. Life would be life, and she had to endure it for them, completing this mission before she got back to the modern world.

Her anger dissipated, leaving in its stead crushing despair. Frances crumbled down, sobs wracking her body as she harshly bit on her own hand to prevent from wailing like a child. No matter the extend of her grief, she wouldn't make an easy target of herself. The twins'[2] training and Aragorn's, during her time spent in middle earth, had ensured that her reflexes of survival were embedded deep in her skull. When in unknown territory, do not let people know you exist. Tears leaked, falling on either side of her cheeks as she wept. Somewhere in the back of her mind, the face of the silent man she had just met appeared. He knew she was there, but seemed indifferent. Yet, he was dangerous, it oozed out of him, this edge that threatened to make him a psychopath. Frances was vulnerable, alone in the woods of Britain.

One question kept nagging at her mind though. The man had sported tattoos on his cheeks, and wore a recurved bow on his back. His eyes, slightly slanted, resembled those of Mongol fighters of old. What would a Mongol do in Britain? The man's steps had been practised, his gestures graceful and scarce, not unlike Aragorn's ones had been. How she longed to have him by her side, her skilled ranger! The man who should have been king, the quiet mentor of her days in Arda. How she missed his soothing presence ! They had only known each other half a year, but he would forever linger in her heart. Had he accepted the crown, at last? Aragorn had been a brother, he would protect her, and sooth her anguish. He would tell her Legolas had survived their separation and not lost his inner light! A wave of longing hit her anew, and for once, Frances couldn't seem to call her survival instinct. Still as a statue, she let the tears fall as snowflakes danced around her. Time passed in the silence of the forest, the bitter wind numbing her extremities. Yet, she couldn't force herself to care. She was dead inside.

The sound of several voices shook her out of her trance. Frances sighed, cocking her head to the side to pick up on the different tones. Horse hooves banged the ground as the horses negotiated the steep descent, and their riders were conversing. Men, at least four different ones. One of them was laughing, such an ill-fitting sound in the depth of her despair! Yet, she was there for a reason. No matter the extend of her anger against the Valar, she still was the Keeper of Time, and must to act as such. In the past, the first people she had met after her appearance were always the ones she needed to help. Perhaps she would find the strange man again, but for now, she would have to take her chances with the group coming down the mountain. Frances braced herself, and shook the snow crusted on her cloak. Her hands were numb, as was her nose. She couldn't shoot her bow with frozen fingers, but would still be able to hold her own with the sword. Time to go.

Slinging her leather backpack above her shoulder, Frances retreated on the cliff path, sniffing the pure air of north Briton. Snow and pine trees, a little moist and harsh cold. The freezing ground couldn't release much more of its fragrance as it was, but the young woman enjoyed it nonetheless. Granite and acidic grounds always created this sort of vegetation. Her mind flew to happier times, to dawn in the mountains as she went skiing with her family. When she wasn't heartbroken, and struggling every morning to find a meaning to her life. What would her mission be, this time? How important, how meaningful to earth, and history? Would she manage, or get killed? Fortunately, she had called her cousin Cécile before going. If she died here, her family would at least know that she died with honor on a mission for the Valar. As she walked, her elvish boots silent on the uneven ground, the voices got louder. And when she came out of the road, a mere hundred feet before the group of riders, she could observe the knights before a set of green eyes spotted her.

There were six of them, lined up on the rocky road by pairs. All of them stumbled to a halt when the man in front lifted his hand. Disciplined, she surmised, and dedicated to their leader. The commander was tall, with a crimson cape and a Roman armour covering his torso and legs. Frances' jaw tightened immediately. Damn, she hated Rome! Her first mission with the necklace had ensured that never again she would set foot in Rome. She'd lost Maximus there, to the infamous Emperor Commodus. At least, he got what he deserved! That son of a bitch, he would have killed Cicero if she had not been there! She'd spit a hundred times over his grave. Frances exhaled slowly. She needed to let go, and get in the good graces of this Roman commander.

The young lady gave nothing away, but her inner self started at that. What was a Roman commander doing so far north in the Middle Ages? Unless … this period predated the Middle Ages. Damn, she'd have to ask for the date. The other knights, for they wore chain mail and armours as well, did have a very different style. Long hair or bald, beards, and a very intimidating posture that screamed of 'warriors'. She had known enough of those to recognise the wariness albeit they seemed unafraid of her. The Roman commander leaned on his horse, eying her with this unnerving gaze that few people possessed. Fortunately for Frances, she had survived Aragorn's looks, as well a Lord Elrond's and Gandalf's stern gaze. After that, she was better equipped to face people demanding answers.

Bracing herself for the confrontation, Frances was totally dumbfounded by the commander's first words.

— "Do not fear. I am Artorius Castus, and those are my knights. Do you require assistance?"

Wow. The man met a woman armed to the teeth in the middle of nowhere, and he offered his help. And this name … it rang a bell, but she couldn't remember what she had read about it. Now, she needed to convince them to let her tag along, and from the looks of it, this conversation was looking better than anticipated. Behind Artorius, a dark-haired man harboured a seductive smirk.

— "I'd be happy to offer a ride to the lady."

The other knights laughed, and Frances' cheeks coloured slightly from the double meaning.

— "Lancelot…", came Artorius's warning.

Frances gasped, her eyes opening wide.

— "Lancelot? As in first knight Lancelot?"

— "See Arthur, she has heard of me already."

Despite her reeling mind, Frances couldn't help but quip back.

— "Not in the way you think of, I'm afraid."

The knight snorted, his beautiful dark eyes flashing as he regarded her from atop his horse.

— "You're an exotic beauty I'd gladly have a taste of."

Spooked, Frances lifted a shaped eyebrow. How dare he! The gall of that man, to assume that any lady would fall into his arms! He'd learn his lesson, this one.

— "You're cute, but I am promised to another. Go and take a bite elsewhere."

A knight laughed at that, a wide man with a bald head. Lancelot's gaze sparkled with mischief as he quipped.

— "Then where's your betrothed? Leaving you alone like this, it is not unseemly?"

— "Lancelot!"

This time, the commander's tone brooked no argument. Frances' eyes turned hard and her fist trembled, thinking of what Legolas would have done with the knight. Sushis ! Skilled or not, no one could hold a candle to the deadly prince of Greenwood … if he lived, still… Her rage knew no bounds as she turned an icy stare to the offensive charmer.

— "Be thankful he isn't there, knight," she growled. "He'd so enjoy wiping the floor with your ass."

Lancelot's smirk faded at her words as the big man guffawed, the others regarded her with mixed looks of awe, incredulity and suspicion. Frances took a step back; she needed some time to think before she launched herself at the arrogant man. There were problems more urgent to solve that her anger at the Valar for separating her from Legolas. Like the names they called themselves with.

Lancelot and Artorius. Could it be the roman for Arthur ? It couldn't be true. Was there a Gawain in there? THE Gawain against the green knight? Galahad maybe? Percival ? And Arthur being a Roman, this definitely rang the bell. She had, not a year ago, presented a lecture on the Arturian's legends in her English class. Yes, it all made sense now, as historians seemed to agree that King Arthur was, in fact, a Dux Bellorum in the first place. It meant then that the Roman empire was on the brink of falling. And try as she might, she couldn't remember when they had left Hadrian's wall. Damn! She'd never been back so far away in the past, expect for Rome of course. The culture shock it would be! Time had come to appease the tensions; she'd get nowhere picking a fight with the infamous Lancelot if she wanted this to work. The elvish greeting passer her lips before she could hold it back.

— "Well met, all of you. And thank you for your offer. I am thoroughly lost, and in great need of guidance."

Definitely, she had a knack for meeting future kings on a rocky road.[3]

* * *

[1] Elvish cloak given by Galadriel to the fellowship's company in Lothlorien

[2] Elladan and Elrohir, sons of Elrond

[3] Innocence's journey will enlighten you on the meaning of Frances's ironic musings.


	2. Woads - Reviewed

For once, Artorius was at loss. The nearest village was too far away for a maiden to have wandered, and the girl standing before him had no fear. She was wary, like a warrior should, and had too many weapons to be a mere lady. Yet, her face was youthful, she might not even be seventeen under that cloak. Her reddish hair was a sight, deeper than any Scot's carrot colour, her slightly tanned skin indicated a habit of the outdoors. From Rome to the latest confines of the world, no noble lady would allow her face to get darker than the most delicate porcelain; it would mean work, which was reserved to the commoner. Yet, the lady held herself proudly, her manners refined, her latin perfect. Everything in her screamed of weirdness and he couldn't sense any hostility. Her golden gaze was so bright, so sincere that he couldn't decide what to do with her. Was this a trap laid out for his knights to fall in? Lancelot, for one, seemed quite eager to do so.

Could he leave her there, vulnerable to any bandit or woad that would have passed the wall? Was she strong enough to defend herself if a random man came across her? On the other hand, he couldn't quite burden himself and his knights with a young woman. In five days, Bishop Germanus would be there with their freedom papers, they deserved it more than anyone on this earth. Arthur didn't want to be responsible for any delay.

Eventually, he nodded, his eyes wary, but features kind.

— "The woods are dangerous, lady …?"

— "Frances. But I do not hold any title, so please call me Frances"

— "How were you led astray, if I may ask?"

That was it. Lie or die.

— "I'm looking for some … friends."

Her hesitation did not go unnoticed, and Arthur wondered if her betrothed was missing. It was bad luck that Tristan wasn't here to discern truth from lies. He'd always been the best at this game.

— "Briton friends?"

— "Yes. I'm going from village to village to find them. They probably never passed the wall."

There. Frances was proud of herself. It was a good cover story, with lots of blanks, and not too many lies. She has been, indeed, trying to find friends when her necklace had called her. Now, she was utterly at loss, and offered this genuine emotion to the commander in hopes of convincing him.

— "How in the world did you end up on such an isolated path? There's no village within twenty leagues from this forest."

Damn! He had her! One little mistake was all it took. She was a terrible liar, and has always been. Disappointed, she mumbled under her breath.

— "Took a wrong turn…"

At this, Lancelot's perfect eyebrow shot up. Upset to have been set aside so easily, he was quite ready to lash out at her blatant lies.

— "Well, then. You would do well to…"

A sudden thunder of hooves echoed from the bottom of the hill, calling everyone to attention as a sick smell passed in the air. Frances scrunched her nose, assaulted by the unwelcome fragrance.

— "Ew! What is that smell?" she cried, searching around her for a carcass.

— "What smell?"

— "That's probably Galahad!" said a blond man with a mane to die for.

— "Eh!" came a young knight's protest.

But Arthur stayed still, his gaze roaming the surroundings for a clue. And then, another wave of the stench hit them.

— "Woads!"

Tension spread among the ranks and Frances unsheathed her sword, catching a few stunned stares from the knights. Unbeknownst to her, her blade – a Dao – , resembled their scout's so much that it seemed forged by the same man. They could not imagine she had chosen it because of its similarities with her elvish blade – lost in Morannon battle with her bow – in weight and form. As the commander seemed to hesitate in their course of action, Tristan was climbing the forest at full speed, his horse panting.

— "Stay away from the witch!" he yelled at his comrades.

The stares intensified, laced with distrust as their mounts took a few steps backs. The moment was broken by a volley of arrows, strangely bringing none of them to harm. Spooked, the horses took off and Frances barely avoided being crushed under their hooves. Swallowing her panic, she got ready to dart off the path when a meaty hand grabbed her and lifted her off the ground. Screaming in fear, Frances found herself sitting on a giant's lap as his steed hurtled down the rocky road at full speed.

— "Witch or not, I'm not leaving you there," he grumbled as he leant forward on his horse.

— "Dagonet, come on!"

Crushed between his huge body and the animal, Frances held on tightly, fear seizing her heart. She was no stranger to riding, but never before had she thundered at breakneck speed in such a precarious equilibrium. Any moment now, she'd be thrown on the ground and trampled, or hit by an arrow. All she could do was to hold Dagonet in a death grip, and keep her body stable enough to prevent from gauging his eyes out with her bow. Easier said than done, for her precarious position threatened to send her overboard. The strong knight held fast, his arm digging into her ribs; there'd be bruises, big fat blue ones for her alone to see.

Eventually, the chase seemed to ease, and Dagonet's horse started to slow down. Frances twisted to position herself properly, wary of her blade still drawn behind the giant's back. A quick glance around told her there had been no casualties. The young lady frowned, relieved, and yet uneasy. Were the woads such bad archers that would not even manage to graze a horse's rear at a close range? Unless they only wanted to spook them, and not injure them? What was their game? The company moved on in silence, the only noise being the echoes of the hooves on the granite showing up here and there. When the path widened at last, the column of knights paired easily, the commander at the front with his first Knight, Lancelot. The scout had joined them in a heated discussion, his glances at her more than obvious, and she knew he was distrustful of her. She couldn't blame him; it was his job to keep his companions safe. She'd seen enough of O'Neill being a wary ass more time than she could count when joining SG1 off world.

A quick halt allowed Frances to descend from Dagonet's horse, the mount needed a relief of her extra weight. Frances thanked him profusely, to which the bald giant only nodded. A scar ran along his skull, passing over one of his clear blue eyes but not impairing his sight; the knight had been lucky in his demise. And despite his fearsome appearance, Dagonet felt like a rock. Strong and sturdy, unmovable, unshakable. Satisfied with her assessment, Frances turned around to find a young bearded knight beside her. He offered his hand in silence, his features more open as she thanked him. Despite his youthful look and slender build, the knight hoisted her up rather easily to help her settle behind him.

— "I'm Galahad", he said.

And they started anew, Frances floored by the fact that she was now riding behind Galahad. The knight if the round table. The one supposed to find the San Graal. Needless to say that it was much more comfortable now, and Frances fell into her old pattern of following the mount's movement, and the body of the knight before him. Memory flooded her mind, long lost after so many years apart from Legolas. She'd ridden with him often on the march to the black gate, and often enough as well behind Elladan or Elrohir. Since elves weighted nothing, her presence didn't impair their horses much. Each of them had its way of moving in the saddle, forcing her body to adapt to the rider and mount. It was no different this time. The only difference is that here, she surmised she would have to change rider often enough to preserve their horses' strength. Even if she weighted only a hundred pounds, the overload wasn't negligible to a horse.

The dark and handsome Lancelot made eyes at her gracious rider, waggling his eyebrows suggestively; Frances sighed. She'd been wrong; this was definitely different. On Arda, no one had ever made an untoward move, nor any dirty suggestion. She was the lady Frances, hosted by the great lord Elrond, the Keeper of Time, and later on, the prince of Greenwood's intended. But aside from the status, it was the inner nature of her friends, back then, that had prevented them for putting her ill at ease. Be it Aragorn, the twins, Legolas, Gimli or Boromir, even the hobbits respected her enough to refrain from commenting on her proximity to men. Here though, it'd be another story, and it left her uneasy. Surely none of the knight would dare making a move against her? Frances nibbled at her lower lip. She'd have to stay alert, and brace for impact.

Beside them rode a man with an incredible mane of blond hair. His built was impressive, his fierceness written over his face. Yet, his blue eyes held some softness, and something akin to joy. This man, she thought she could trust.

— "I am Gawain," he told her. "And your gracious knight there is Galahad."

Frances very nearly blurted out 'Mae Govannen', the elvish greeting, before repressing the urge. A flash of pain seized her heart, but she forced herself to be civil. Crossing paths with the knights of the round table was such an honour that she felt bad to be so ill at ease.

— "It is nice to meet you, Sir Gawain. As for my gracious knight, he already presented himself"

His voice greeted her pleasantly.

— "Gawain is all right, my lady."

— "Then Frances it is"

Gawain's blue eyes were set on her, demanding, curious. As the young lady turned around to meet his gaze, he questioned bluntly.

— "Are you a witch?"

— "Gawain!" came her rider's scandalised voice.

— "No, it's all right. He has the right to ask, and I guess that all of you might want to hear the answer to that."

Several sets of ears turned to the conversation, most of them very discreetly. But none other more intently than the scout.

— "Well. I am no witch. I am just a woman who happens to know how to fight. Given the hearty welcome of the locals, it is quite fortunate that I thought to take my bow and blade."

A heavy snort came from the bald man, his boisterous voice laughing at her statement.

— "A woman you say? Naaaah, you're just a girl."

— "A strange girl indeed," came Lancelot's smooth voice.

Frances' eyebrow lifted on her forehead, drawing a perfect arc that gave her a mischievous air.

— "Is this how you have revenge, Sir Lancelot? By belittling my age and calling me a girl?"

His dark eyes twinkled; he enjoyed the challenge.

— "I didn't. Bors did."

So, that was the bald man's name.

— "I am allowed to call her a girl, I am almost thirty-three now."

Thirty-three. It probably was a respectable age at the time, when in the 21st century, this man would be considered young still. The age Jesus Christ was crucified.

— "More than ten years older than the pup"

— "Hey!", protested Galahad.

Frances laughed at the nickname. So Galahad was the youngest, and 23 years old. Her eyes observed the other knights around her, trying to assess their age according to their looks. Bors seemed at least five more years than what they told her. As for Galahad, she would have gone for thirty. One couldn't expect to live in the dark ages and be fresh as a daisy. Somehow, it also gave her the answer to their mislead statement about her age. Of course they'd think her much younger, for she was, after all, living in a modern setting with day cream, spa, showers and a proper diet. And a much easier life … when she wasn't on a mission to save earth or history.

— "All right. So would you like to guess my age?"

— "Yeah! What do we win?"

Frances blinked. She had forgotten the inclination of men to bet and gamble. Definitely not middle earth. Damn, she had got used to Aragorn and Legolas's gentle nature. Those men were rough. Her voice was not as strong as she hoped it to be as she answered the blond man beside her.

— "What do you win? Er … the right to be right?"

— "That's lame," protested Gawain, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

— "What about a kiss?" jested Lancelot.

Frances' face darkened, and her hold tightened on the knight before her.

— "Forget it. You can speculate about my age for eternity."

— "I don't care about any winning," came Dagonet's voice behind them. "But you must be around seventeen of age, and should not place yourself in harm's way. I will, however, ensure that there is no unwanted kiss involved."

His voice seemed to settle the knights, for all of them slightly deflated. The man had a soothing aura, this strength barely concealed behind a quiet exterior. Frances' hands unclenched on Galahad's armour. She would have hugged Dagonet if she could; he had just saved her from future wooing, setting the limit.

— "I thank you for your kindness, Sir Dagonet. To you then, I can admit to being level with Galahad, for I am 23 of age, and hardly a child. Yet, I will value your counsel."

Several gasps welcomed this statement, and Frances patted Galahad back slightly. Being the youngest one in a group of men, she'd known that her whole life. Not that her brothers had been many, but her neighbours had five older boys, and she'd been more often at their place than hers while growing up. The lone woman around seven boys…

— "I know how it feels, to be the youngest one. I grew up with seven brothers, and was the little girl for a long time. It'll pass. Someday you'll be old, and reminisce about the times you were treated like a kid."

— "I wish," came his dreamy voice.

Frances frowned at this, sensing the despair flowing through this statement.

— "Whatever do you mean?"

Gawain regarded her for an instant before pushing his chin forward in Galahad's direction.

— "He's a pup. A baby wolf. When the Romans took us, he was the youngest one."

— "Took you? Enlighten me. I am unfamiliar with your situation, and the Roman's part in this."

And so, this is how Frances came to learn that each of those knights had been snatched away from their parents at a young age and forced to serve. Forced to die, as so many had along the years. 35 had arrived, 6 were left. Her blood boiled, her hatred for the Roman empire and its hypocrisy burning in her heart. After losing Maximus to that horrid Commodus, she had kept a searing disgust for Rome.

Unbeknownst to her, the discussion at the front had ended, Arthur hearing the solemn voice of Gawain explaining the state of slavery they were in. The commander hated this situation, wounded to the core each time one of his knights would pass away. And yet, he believed so strongly in the might of Rome, in its enlightenment. The lady, though, didn't keep her rage contained.

— "You've got to be kidding me!" she roared. "Fifteen fucking years ‼!"

Arthur cringed at the words, relieved when the woman had the sense to apologise for her outburst. Bors' loud laugh cut her short.

— "A knight doesn't ask forgiveness for swearing."

— "She's not a knight."

Tristan's quiet words shocked everyone silent. His statement, if harsh, only spoke the truth. Arthur needed to find a safe place to get rid of the girl, especially now that the bishop was coming to grant their freedom. He couldn't afford to miss the carriage, and to jeopardise this mission. They had suffered enough under his care. They deserved freedom, and happiness. And he … he would go to Rome, and eventually relish in the light of the city, and the love of his caretaker Pelagius.


	3. Lady Hawk - Reviewed

They stopped for the night at the base of a hill, keeping the fire to a minimum to avoid being detected by the woads. The less garrison at the wall, the bolder they became. Tristan's eyes were set on the girl as she helped build a fire, and settled herself in a corner. As per Arthur's command, the scout watched for inside threats, as well as woads and animals. The witch should not be taken lightly. Already, his brothers had warmed up to her in an unnatural fashion. But she would not enthrall him so easily. Her eyes and manners though, seemed genuine. Still, he wouldn't relent; it probably was part of the bewitching. Now, even Arthur was smiling down at her as she handed him a bowl of Gawain's stew.

Eventually, the young lady excused herself, claiming the call of nature. Arthur's eyes caught his, earning a nod of his head. 'Watch her, and keep her safe,' was his silent command. As the witch found refuge in a few trees not far from their encampment, Tristan followed, a shadow amongst shadows. Very soon, he couldn't even spot her. He had to grant this; she was stealthy for a lady. Yet no one outmarched him. Standing still in a clearing, he waited, until the slight shuffle of leaves indicated her position. A silhouette passed between the silver bark of the trees, her reddish hair painted in lighter hues from the moonlight. Tristan approached, his daggers clutched tightly. Witch or fairy? He had not decided yet. Albeit he had conveyed his doubts to Arthur, the scout had refrained from speaking about the blueish light. To this moment, he was still unsure of his reasons for concealing such an important information.

The young woman spread her arms wide, turning slightly around, as if feeling the land under her feet, and inhaling the forest. Tristan blinked, mesmerised by her silent dance. Her moves were graceful, her eyes closed in a prayer. Was she, like him, more at ease in nature than between walls? A sudden shiver caught him, and Tristan emerged from his trance. That was it, she was bewitching him also! In a fit of rage, the scout burst forth. The witch spun at the last moment. Too late. His arm rushed, fingers sneaking around her throat as he pinned her violently to the bark of an oak. Her fist hit him in the stomach, then a knee. She was fast, but not strong enough to deter him, especially with his armour on. Tristan grunted, and set his blade on the white skin of her smooth throat.

Eyes wide open, she stared at him in fear. And then, recognition dawned on her, and she slightly relaxed in his grip. Tristan scoffed at the trust she put in him. As if she was safer with him holding a blade on her throat than with a woad!

— "Tell me witch", he growled. "What will you do now?"

Frances swallowed cautiously, and the scout slowly released the pressure of his blade so that she could answer. Her throat was sore, he'd nearly crushed her windpipe and she struggled not to cough.

— "I am no witch"

His answer was a grunt, eyes shining under the moonlight, lighter than they seemed during the day as he hid them under the fringe of messy hair. The predatory glance, though, was enough to tell her that she was at his mercy.

— "I have seen your coming. I have seen the ball of blue light. Is it woads' magic?"

So he knew of the necklace's magic. Well, then, from the inquisitive looks he gave her, Frances knew she would not be able to lie. Never before had she encountered such an intense gaze. It was as if he could see right through her. It was unnerving … and slightly soothing; she didn't have to hide anymore. Her hand came to rest upon the one that held her pinned, finding support in the coiled fingers to adjust her stance upon the bark that dug in her back. The scout tensed, yet didn't chase her away when he realized she wasn't trying to gain the upper hand. The warmth she found at his contact slightly unnerved her, and Frances swallowed before answering.

— "I do not wield this magic, nor am I its master. I was sent there to aid you."

— "To aid us?"

The scout's face revealed nothing, his grip as painful as ever. If she reared up now, she had no doubt he'd slice her throat in an instant. Panic rose, overwhelming her senses, and Frances pushed it down by studying the strange colour of his eyes at night. She didn't know why but, even as he threatened her life and her heart hammered in her chest, she found his eyes to be fascinating. A window to his tortured soul. And God, there was so much pain, so much regret in their depth.

— "Yes. Your knights, Arthur, and you"

This time, his feature hardened.

— "Me"

She couldn't possibly tell him that the first person to stumble upon her usually was the one she was supposed to help. In her heart, though, she knew it to be true. Tristan needed solace more than anyone in this merry company.

— "Yes. You are the first person I met on arrival. I will fight for you"

His voice slightly raised, just above a whisper as he chastised her.

— "Foolish girl! We do not need you"

His anger only managed to rile her up, and despite the fact that he could slice her throat on a heartbeat, her respond flung back without remorse.

— "Apparently, you do. Or I wouldn't have been sent here in the first place!"

— "Who sent you?"

She had to give him some credit, the man knew how to conduct an interrogation. And his gaze pinned her to the tree as efficiently as his blade. There was no escaping the truth such was his magnetic presence.

— "The Valar, my gods. Albeit I suspect them of having agreements with other deities… Anyway. They send me to ensure that events unfold the way they are supposed to."

— "Your ramblings make no sense, woman!"

This time, Frances huffed loudly. She'd had enough. Fortunately, the man had the reflex to drive his blade a little further from her throat lest she killed herself.

— "Damn it, you stubborn scout! Can you not just trust me?"

— "For fifteen years I have protected my brothers… no, I cannot"

The woman sent her arms to the sky in a silent plea, and he removed his blade altogether. He'd overpower her easily if need be, and didn't want to tell Arthur he had bled her like a cow.

— "I'd bash your thick head on the bark of the tree if I could!"

Tristan blinked, surprised by the colourful insult. No one at the fort, not even his brothers had the guts to give him a tongue lashing. People stayed clear from his path, fearing him like the plague… but the young lady here, she couldn't know of his reputation until she saw him hack at his enemies. She'd learn soon enough to avoid him. Until then… until then he would enjoy invoking her wrath, for it felt good, for once, to be treated like a human being. Vanora only dared sending him glares, and even the mighty redhead refrained from unleashing her tongue at him. Needless to say that Tristan enjoyed the challenge in a twisted way. And her exasperation felt so genuine. Despite the fact that she fed him the craziest story ever, no lies dwelt in her eyes. She told him the truth, her truth. Had he not seen the blue light, he'd have dubbed her absolutely demented. Yet, something nagged at the back of his mind. Her mannerism, her genuine smiles, her way of speech. She was different. Perhaps then, it was the world that had gone crazy, and she truly was from another place?

A piercing cry called his attention to the sky in surprise, and the young lady followed his gaze. Out of habit, Tristan extended his hand in the air to welcome his Hawk. The bird passed his face in a flurry of wings, and landed on his glove. Frances let out a muffled cry, biting her lip to refrain from making more noise. The scout scratched the dark feathers of the bird lightly in welcome and then something incredible happened. The hawk hopped aside once, twice, and, instead of taking off again, it landed on the lady's shoulder. Tristan watched her as she repressed her scream, his surprise barely hidden on his face. The scout didn't make a sound, his golden eyes set on the hawk as its claws dug into her shoulder piece, creating two set of holes in the patterned leather. He didn't miss either the way her chest heaved up and down before her posture relaxed. She had a tight control over her emotions.

Frances contemplated the bird from the corner of her eye, its shiny feathers basked in the moonlight. Albeit its beak could pierce her eyes, she felt strangely comfortable with its weight on her shoulder.

— "Hello there. You … you are splendid."

The bird was still like a statue until Frances dared lifting her hand and brushing its lovely feathers under Tristan's stunned stare. The hawk always nibbled at the other knight's fingers when they approached her, but she did nothing of the sort with Frances. Perhaps that she was a shaman.

The feathers were soft under Frances' skin, and the young woman caressed the bird for a long time before it started fidgeting. Then, the hawk started chirping at its master, as if telling him off for being so rude. When at last it took off again, Tristan's mind was made up. She was no witch, but a fairy. His hawk had told her so. Turning to the young woman, he eyed her once more.

— "Do what you have to do. I'll not stand in your way."

— "Thank you, Tristan"

It had been a long time since a feminine voice had uttered his name, let alone thanked him with the heart, and it strangely soothed his soul. The scout gave her a levelled gaze, his mask slipping back into place.

— "Don't thank me. This world is not made for women. You'll be broken soon enough."

And then he huffed and walked away. Before disappearing, though, he called to her.

— "Don't stay there, it's dangerous."


	4. Dagonet - Reviewed

**_Hey, you can thank Mairi for her idea ! She's the one who suggested I switch point of views sometimes, so there will be one short chapter for each of the knights._**

**_Cheers ! And Please review, it always makes my day even if you think that this story is now complete and I don't need them. It is untrue, I always crave a nice comment._**

Dagonet was checking the edge of his heavy sword – again – to avoid conversation. Not that Bors would get the hint, mind you. Every now and then, a jab would be thrown his way. The giant knight barely had to grunt to deflect the attention. Bors, his brother in everything but blood, was used to it by now. Most of the time, Dagonet didn't even bother acknowledging him at all; this is what Vanora was for. The memory of the couple's last fight called a smile to his lips. For sure, Vanora wasn't one to back down. There wasn't a woman in the world that could make Bors squirm with a glare like she did. With her fussing and ordering around, she had replaced the knight's mother figure so easily and he … well. He was their father, because Bors was too busy taking care of himself. Their conscience as well.

It hurt more than he had foreseen. Every loss felt like a piece of his family ripped apart. He had held the hands of most dying knights, be it from wounds or disease, except for Kay who had been dead before he touched the ground. Every time they lost a knight, Dagonet felt the blade plunge into his heart as keenly as Arthur did. For even if their commander was responsible for them, he was still a Roman. Or a Briton. An outsider commanding respect, a man they would die for. But no Sarmatian. He, Dagonet, had started learning the art of healing because he wanted to have a hand in his brothers' health, like a father would have done, or a benevolent uncle. The only one that didn't regard him as such – apart from Bors – was Tristan. Perhaps because they were closer in age. Perhaps, also, because no one could replace the mighty father that had raised such a warrior. Their scout was the sort of man you didn't cross. All rage contained, ready to be unleashed upon their enemies, precision incarnated into a human being. A predator on the prowl.

Speaking of which, Tristan emerged from the woods like a shadow, footsteps silent. Under the moonlight, a flying shadow soared in the sky, circling twice above its master before gliding away. There were many jokes about Tristan's hawk, Lancelot stating more often than not that the bird was the only woman in the scout's life. Dagonet kept his mouth shut about it, wondering in silence if Tristan had ever taken interest in a woman other than to bed her. In truth, he didn't know what made his heart sing other than the wilderness and, of course, the thrill of battle. Despite his observation skills, Dagonet had yet to pierce the scout's secrets. His brothers were oblivious of his approach; his stealth cheating even the most observant ones. But not Dagonet, who shared the ability to remain silent with the scout. Apparent passivity gave more time to observe, and he wanted to know if the lady Frances was still alive. Witch or not, his heart had refused to leave her behind to die. And when his eyes had met hers, he was moved by the pain in her eyes, the earnest plea of her soul. He felt responsible for her life now.

His clear blue eyes bore holes into the scout, interrogating without asking aloud. His impassive mask didn't falter as he sat on a log, and for a moment, Dagonet's heart quickened. He understood Tristan's suspicion; something … there was something the lady wasn't saying. Something HE wasn't saying either, like a secret they shared. And when this very night, Arthur sent Tristan to the young woman, he grew afraid of what might happen. But he trusted their scout, no matter how tempered he could be. Tristan's amber eyes twinkled in the dark, and he barely nudged his head aside. It was enough for Dagonet to follow his line of sight and spot the young woman as she approached the campfire. Arthur spared her a glance, checking that she posed no danger. Then, seemingly satisfied, he returned to his musings.

Dagonet watched as she, too, prowled like a giant cat. Not unlike their scout. She seemed unhurt, and, catching his gaze, decided to settle beside him. Her instincts probably told her he would protect her from anything. After all, Lancelot had been brutal enough in his intentions. Even if Dagonet knew that none of them would ever take a woman by force – Arthur would be enraged! – the young woman didn't. It was a harsh world for a woman to travel alone; she'd been lucky to find them and not a band of outlaws. The tall knight almost shuddered at the thought of what might have happened. Even if she carried weapons, her skill remained to be seen. And no one could outmatch fifteen armed men intend on feasting upon a lovely maiden.

Frances settled beside him with a discreet smile, pulling him out of his thoughts. Dagonet nodded her gently as she rummaged into her leather bag. Then she started unbraiding her hair to pass a wooden brush in the tangled strands. The light of the fire set it ablaze, and even he had trouble tearing his gaze from the long strands that fell over her lap in waves. Her movements caught the attention of the younger knights; their eyes following the rhythmic movement of the brush. But he, alone, could hear the faint hisses and curses – in another language – that escaped her each time she ran into a knot. It took a long time for her hair to be entirely combed out, and when she eventually finished, she gathered its thickness behind her head and started twisting its length to pin it in a bun so compressed that it seemed ridiculous compared to the mass she had just tamed. The movement caused her collar to open slightly, revealing a purple bruise upon her neck. Refraining a growl, he awaited for the attention to shift away from them before asking discreetly.

— "What happened?"

The young woman gave him a doe look, eyes wide open in an innocent expression that almost made him chuckle. With this catlike face, he didn't doubt she could obtain anything she wanted. But Dagonet wasn't fooled, and mustered his best fatherly stare, pointing at her neck. Frances sighed, pulling her collar closer to hide the purple bruise.

— "The scout and I now have an understanding," she whispered.

Dagonet nodded, unwilling to comment to avoid catching the other's attention. Anger seldom seized his heart, but the shape of purple fingers upon the lady's slender neck irked him nonetheless. Keeping silent didn't prevent him from sending a harsh glare to Tristan, promising retribution should anything alike happen again. The scout didn't shrug albeit he could see he longed to. His smouldering eyes lingered instead on the young woman by his side, a strange look hidden behind his fringe.

The giant knight almost smirked. If he didn't know Tristan so well, he might have missed the puzzlement in his gaze. But he could read him better than anyone else… Well, that was interesting. The scout's unshakeable countenance undone by one woman. A tiny slip of a girl; she could be his own daughter. Let her be so for the while she needed it. A shoulder to rely upon to counter the fearsome scout.


	5. A long road ahead - Reviewed

**Hey. Another chapter for today, a tad longer than the previous ones. Frances is starting to understand the knight's dynamic, but she still has no clues about the reason she's there. And a certain scout is curious :) We'll see that rascal of a Bishop soon enough. Please review if you like it, it feeds my muse ! Cheers.**

Once more, Tristan's eyes lingered on the lady's face. The memory of her kind gestures towards his loyal companion called some guilt in his gut. He'd been less than civil, threatening her life, and the bruise at her throat reminded him of his penchant for violence. Tristan knew of his twisted soul; there was a good reason why people did not approach him. Even Vanora, Bors' lover, kept her distance from him… most of the time. But in the light of yesterday's event, he actually felt disgusted by his ways. Fifteen years of fighting for a cause that wasn't his had managed to break him. Bitterness to replace the pain, solitude to prevent from sharing his despair at seeing his kin fall. And not even Arthur's light could howl him out of the pit his soul had been thrown into. His eyes fell once more on Frances' face, taking in the exotic beauty of her gently carved face, and her faraway look. She wanted to fight for them. Well, then, she'd very soon die with them. He cared not for the whims of an insane fairy.

She'd hidden the bruise under the collar of her tunic, the strange embroidered designs covering her skin. It wasn't roman, nor scot, nor celtic. Tristan had an eye for detail, and he'd never seen any patterns alike. Still, her hand lingered there every so often before falling back to seize Gawain's armour. Pain. Pain he had inflicted upon her. Tristan would have sighed had his heart not built such walls. Soon, very soon, the bruise at her throat would be the least of her concerns.

To the knights' mutual amazement, she was not such a burden. Her conversation was lively, albeit a little forced. She had not taken eternity to shake herself in the morning, and was even ready before Galahad. She had not complained about the meagre rabbit stew for breakfast, neither about her sore hide after a day in the saddle. Yet, he could clearly see the failings in her gait; her muscles were unaccustomed to riding. Most surprising of all in the scout's view, the lady had checked her weapons before setting off. She might be useful, after all, especially if she knew how to shoot her bow. Its design was foreign to him – quite a feat ! - it seemed slightly recurved, less than his, but forged with materials he'd never see before. The handle was thick, moulded to her hand with a rich reddish wood, the colour not unlike her startling hair.

The young woman turned to him, her hazel eyes finding his despite the heavy fringe and plaits that adorned his unruly hair. Her left eyebrow shot up; she knew he was observing her. Well, time to scout ahead to find a place to rest. Tristan urged his mount forward, and left the puzzling fairy behind him.

_A few hours later…_

Lively flames were soaring high in the sky as the company enjoyed a well-deserved rest. Frances' butt was numb, and her thighs didn't fare so much better. But at last she'd made progress with the group of knights who were getting friendlier. Tristan, their scout, had reported a clear area without the fear of being ambushed by woads, hence the blazing fire and hearty laughs. As the distance closed off with the fort of Hadrian's wall, tensions seemed to diminish. From what Frances was gathered, a bishop was on the way with their discharge papers. Freedom! Why would Rome sent a man of the church for such a task, she couldn't fathom? Venison was being presently roasted on the fire by an expert hand; Gawain seemed quite determined to cook then a nice dinner.

— "After all, it is not often that we welcome a pretty lady among our ranks."

His face was youthful albeit hardened by years of battling.

— "Even less often that you get your freedom back," she retorted.

The blond knight sent her a grin. His banter held no innuendos, and she was happy that his interest in her lay elsewhere than between her legs. Gawain had a very direct temperament that she appreciated greatly.

— "Be careful, said pretty lady is quite heavily armed," retorted Galahad.

— "Aaah, but so am I"

Laughter greeted the knight's quip, to which even Arthur joined as he sat down across her.

— "So tell me, Frances. Where do you hail from?"

Shit. More questions. The scout's eyes were once more set on her face. No lies possible then.

— "I was born in Lugdunum. My family still resides in the area."

— "Ah. This explains your perfect mastering of the Latin language."

Frances pursed her lips to prevent from laughing. Damn, if Cécile – her cousin – heard that, she'd die from a seizure. The Keeper of Time was good with languages, but Latin she could never learn properly. She hated it, even before her first mission to the Roman empire. Her cousin, on the other hand, mastered antic languages quite fluently – all part of her master in Lettres Classique in Lyon. Damn, Cécile even knew Hebrew! But Frances couldn't possibly say that her proficient level in Latin came from the magic of the necklace. Somehow, her brain had assimilated the language as its own … and she'd forget all about it when getting back. The ways of the Valar … and their technology. Unfortunately, it only extended as far as the main language, meaning she had no clue about Briton, Celt or any other langage.

— "You have come a long way to find your friends."

This was not a statement, but open interrogation. Frances turned to the commander, gazing into his gentle green eyes. Curiosity had settled there, laced with concern. The poor man was burdened enough, but still took the time to worry about her. King Arthur indeed, the best of men; he'd earned his title!

— "You have no idea," she whispered back.

Seeing that she offered no more, Lancelot couldn't resist prodding. There simply was too much silence in the lady's answers.

— "I gather your betrothed is the one whom you seek?"

A new wave of sadness washed over her, and Frances swallowed painfully the piece of bread she had been munching on. Yet, none of the knights scolded Lancelot for his words.

— "I had thought, at first, that he would be here. But I fear I was misled, for none have seen him in the villages I passed."

It was a good lie, one that came close to the truth. She had hoped for three years that the necklace would take her back to middle earth, to Legolas, only to face the terrible disappointment that it was not so.

— "You will find him I am sure," came Galahad's voice.

Frances didn't have the courage to smile back, fearing that tears would spill should she witness his sympathetic gaze. The young man truly was pure of heart, and she'd have welcomed his comfort had she been but a little stronger.

— "Maybe he passed but people didn't spot him? The Britons care about their own ass, they're not very observant", said Bors.

Frances' eyes got lost in the flames, her memory painting Legolas in this forsaken place. For sure, an elf prince would have made a striking figure on earth!

— "Nay. He is not one to be disregarded. Had he set foot on those lands, he would have been recognised for sure"

Lancelot smirked, his cynicism coming forth.

— "Bah you know the saying. It is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all."

Frances' gaze hardened as she met his dark one, and he instantly knew he had hit a nerve. Arthur elbowed him hard, his eyes, immensely sad, watching the young lady's. Lost in the depth of her despair, Frances failed to recognise a fellow heartbroken man. She stood up abruptly, and glared at the dark knight.

— "Tell me about it five years from now"

'When you weep over Guinevere being Arthur's wife', she thought. Then she realized she was standing before them all, and looked for an excuse.

— "Anyway. I smell, I'm off to find the stream"

— "Not as much as Bors", came Gawain's playful retort.

Had she not been so heartbroken and angry as the Valar for pulling this mission on her when they refused to reunite her with Legolas, Frances would have laughed. As it was, bluntness replaced her usual politeness.

— "Not as much as you all, frankly. Still I can't do anything about you lot, hence I'll wash myself at the stream."

Many eyebrows rose, but none of the knight felt like contradicting her. Yes. They all smelled of sweat, blood and horse; nothing new here. If she wasn't content with it, she could very well walk to Hadrian's wall by herself. Arthur, though, couldn't prevent from playing the gentleman.

— "Lady Frances, the stream is extremely cold"

Her jaw clenched, the fury of Lancelot's misplaced quip still running through her veins. Yes, the stench of sweat and horse was unbearable to her acute sense of smell. Yes, she hated being there ! Yes, she was enraged to be travelling again with men when Legolas always carried with him the subtle scent of pinetrees and forest breeze. Greenleaves…

— "I don't mind cold water. It is vivifying and washes aches away"

Would it soothe her heartache ? Probably not. Then, realizing how rude she had been, her gaze softened as she told the commander.

— "I will be back shortly, please excuse me"

And then she left the camp, walking swiftly to the top of the hill as tears fell down her cheeks. How she missed him! So much that she didn't hear the commotion in camp, nor the harsh words chastising Lancelot. She also failed to detect the scout's presence, lingering a few feet behind her as she plopped ungracefully beside the steam and started singing softy.[1]

« Cette lettre peut vous surprendre (This letter might surprise you)  
Mais sait-on ? peut-être pas... (But you never know, maybe not)  
Quelques braises échappées des cendres (A few embers escaped from the cinders)  
D'un amour si loin déjà (From a long lost love)

Vous en souvenez-vous ? (Do you remember?)  
Nous étions fous de nous (We were so fond of us)

Nos raisons renoncent, mais pas nos mémoires (Our reason surrendered, but not our memories)  
Tendres adolescences, j'y pense et j'y repense (Gentle teenagers, I think about it all the time)  
Tombe mon soir et je voudrais vous revoir (The night falls, and I'd like to see you again)

Nous vivions du temps, de son air (We lived from the air of time)  
Arrogants comme sont les amants (Arrogants, like lovers are)  
Nous avions l'orgueil ordinaire (We were so proud to think)  
Du "nous deux c'est différent" (That we were different)  
Tout nous semblait normal (Everything seemed normal)  
Nos vies seraient un bal (Our lives would be a ball)  
Les jolies danses sont rares (But lovely dances are scarce)  
On l'apprend plus tard (We all come to learn it)  
Le temps sur nos visages (The time on our faces)  
A soumis tous les orages (Overpowered all the storms)  
Je voudrais vous revoir (I'd like to see you again)  
Et pas par hazard (But not by chance)"

It was a sad song, yet gentle, into which Frances could pour out hopes and despair. A tribute to her bright love, and the desire to see Legolas again before she died … or her absence cause him to fade. Dear Lord, how she wished it never came to that! Legolas had been the one to send her back to earth in hopes of saving her life. That, at least, had been a success as the teleportation had mended her broken body. But at what price? Gathering her face into her hands, Frances cried earnestly.

The appearance of the scout by her side should have spooked her, but she was too far gone in her melancholy to jump. She knew the knight stood watch and would keep them safe. His impassive façade did not flinch as he plucked an apple from his pocket, and started slicing it methodically. Truth be told, Tristan didn't even know why he was there, sitting beside her, rather than keeping watch from the top of the hill. Though he was not the only one having sensed her distress, he'd agreed with Arthur that the lady needed some time without disruption. Lancelot, for once, had been a bigger ass than he. Yet, it was no reason enough to disregard this universal masculine wisdom to never get in position to comfort a crying lady.

Her song had called to him, her quiet words, in a language that held a few similarities with Latin but he couldn't comprehend, had led his feet to this very spot. And before he knew it, he's taken a seat by her side. She didn't turn to him, probably ashamed of her tears, but gazed at the stars. With her little nose stuck in the air, her profile was lovely, much gentler than his. A womanly shape – definitely not a girl – with a pointed jaw and high cheekbones. Her eyes retained the light of the stars, brightening the warm brown of their depth. In the night, the red of her hair was dulled; she almost seemed like a normal woman. And suddenly, Tristan was curious about what kind of man could have captured the fairy's heart.

— "What is he like, your betrothed?"

Frances didn't move an inch, but her the corner of her lips twitched upwards. A very private expression lightened her features as she answered.

— "He is like the sun, so bright that it sometimes hurts to contemplate his features when its rays descend upon him. Agile like a wild cat, light on his feet, his voice is a melody for sore hearts, and his character merry and gentle. Yet, he is the deadliest warrior I have come to know,"

Tristan nodded, he could relate to the deadly part, but none of the rest came close to what his fellow knights were … to what he was.

— "Legolas cares for trees, for animals and every living being. His horse is a friend, not a servant."

Then she turned to him, her eyes shining with tears, but a smile upon her lips.

— "Not unlike you care for your hawk. My betrothed loves laughing, and singing, and when he does the world stops spinning."

The scout frowned, unfamiliar with the notion of a spinning world.

— "How long have you been separated?"

— "Three years"

It was a long time for a girl. Even if she was as old as she claimed – which he could believe, given the depth he's seen in her eyes – three years bordered on eternity at such a young age. The feeling she had poured in her words, though, left no doubt in his mind.

— "You love him still."

Frances nodded.

— "I'd die any moment for him."

For a moment, Tristan wondered how it would feel the be the recipient of such heartfelt love. Would it be fulfilling enough to bypass the stares and hatred he gathered when he walked in the fort? His stone-cold mask didn't slip away as his thoughts ran havoc in his head. Yet, anger rose in his chest. Love, what a silly notion! He was altogether undeserving, and had forged his fearsome reputation all by himself. He asked for it, the wide berth people gave him, and relished in the peace it gave him. No one approached; they knew of his corrupted mind. Tainted and unpredictable. Violent and merciless. His next words were harsh, unforgiving.

— "Then why do you throw your life away so carelessly?"

The young woman glare at him, her gaze so intense that he felt like a kid under its parent's scowl. Is that how people felt when he stared at them? When she stood a little stiffly, her muscles sore still, he did not move an inch.

— "I do not. It's my job to be here, and I will do what is required of me. Maybe then will I be allowed to reunite with my betrothed"

Frances got back to camp, annoyed at the hurtful words of the scout. As she climbed the hill again, a shrill cry pierced the sky, and she turned around to see a dark shape land on its master's shoulder, the feathers blending with the scout's hair.

The night was uneventful, and Lancelot even came to her to apologise for his lack of thoughtfulness. Frances accepted it, albeit she could sense he was still wary of her. Whose knight she had to thank for this, she did not know, but she couldn't care less as night engulfed her.

Sleeping hours were short. They set off right after dawn. The scout didn't leave for long, claiming the road was safe, and the knights were in high spirits. The dense forests of northern England had surrendered their hold on an open valley, and the road followed a stream which waters seemed to glide into the sunshine. It was a beautiful day, away from the biting cold as the wind turned to the west. The lingering smell of iodine was in the air, the smell of the Ocean. Frances was in a better mood than the previous day, riding behind Galahad once more. Curiously, speaking about Legolas had somehow settled her heart, or was it the reminder of the Ocean a mere fifty kilometres – er, leagues – away?

The knights bantered around her, laughing at her wit as she jested back, unfazed by their manners and sometimes less than acceptable choices of subjects. This was not middle earth, and she had to accept it, accept their roughness, if she wanted to have a chance to help them. And then, as the time approached noon, they started singing. It was a warrior's song, in their mother tongue, to which Galahad only contributed sparsely. The rhythm took Frances far away, on the rolling plains of Sarmatia, and she found herself singing along the tune. It was strong, powerful even, to hear those voices raising together as one. At the end, as she felt more confident, Frances introduced a few variations to compliment their baritone. A habit from her long days with Cécile, at home, when they would sing relentlessly two or three different voices. Her soprano laced with the melody, and the warrior's march ended beautifully on a powerful final. Frances smiled, impressed.

— "It was beautiful, you have such strong voices, and this language is very melodic."

— "Aye, it is," said Gawain, once more riding beside her.

— "Too bad I cannot remember half of it," spat Galahad.

The young lady frowned, sending a glance at Gawain who seemed quite discombobulated. How terrible, to not even me able to remember your mother tongue! Damn those Romans for snatching him away from his family at such a young age. But then, Gawain's expression lightened as he smiled.

— "It is your turn now."

Frances reddened instantly, a drop of sweat forming between her shoulder blades.

— "My turn?"

— "Yes. I've heard your voice in the chorus, and it seemed fine enough for you to sing a song from your homeland."

Gawain grinned at her, and she found herself a little weak at the knees. The soft clop clop of horses came nearer as Lancelot and Bors surrounded Galahad. The first knight turned to her, an infectious smile on his lips, his infamous locks glowing in the sunshine.

— "Come, my lady. Surely you can regal us with your sweet voice?"

Somehow, she knew she'd not get away from it. And she loved singing, just not in public.

— "Er … give me a minute to think."

— "A minute?"

Frances blinked. Of course, the minute was a non-existent notion in the fifth century.

— "A moment, sorry. Just a moment"

Silence fell upon the knight, anticipation gaining them as Frances' stress peaked. There was no escaping this. Why not give them a treat?

— "So?"

The young lady glared at Lancelot. The man was insufferable sometimes.

— "All right, all right. There you go, stubborn knight.

Frances exhaled slowly, and inflated her lungs. It was not the easiest song ever, but she had performed it so many times before that her voice could handle it. And she knew of Lancelot's aversion for the Christian Holy Church. It would serve him right, even if he could not understand the words. English, after all, was a non-existent language in 5th century Briton.

"_God rest ye merry, gentlemen_

_Let nothing you dismay_

_for Jesus Christ our Saviour_

_Was born on Christmas Day_

_To save us all from Satan's power_

_When we were gone astray_

_O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy_

_O tidings of comfort and joy"_

Damn, she's started a little higher than intended. The strain on her voice was stronger than usual, but Frances refused to relent as a religious silence told her they expected her to continue. She concentrated her gaze on Galahad's back, refusing to look around. Had she done so, she'd have stared at the shocked faces of her fellow companions.

_"From God our Heavenly Father_

_A blessed Angel came;_

_And unto certain Shepherds_

_Brought tidings of the same:_

_How that in Bethlehem was born_

_The Son of God by Name._

_O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy_

_O tidings of comfort and joy._

_"Fear not then," said the Angel,_

_"Let nothing you affright,_

_This day is born a Saviour_

_Of a pure Virgin bright,_

_To free all those who trust in Him_

_From Satan's power and might."_

_O tidings of comfort and joy,_

_Comfort and joy_

_O tidings of comfort and joy"_

Silence greeted her, and Frances closed her eyes, her skin flushed. She knew the tone of her voice to be alike Loreena Mc Kennitt, some friends had told her so, and her compositions suited her well. Yet, it still surprised her how this song could make her whole body vibrate. At last, the young lady opened her eyes, only to meet Lancelot shocked face.

— "What?" she said defensively. "The exotic beauty not up to the task?"

— "On the contrary," he answered with a bow, "you have only enchanted me more."

Frances blushed under his intense staring, and was relieved when he steered his horse away. Gawain replaced him, recovering his position as he gave her a genuine smile.

— "It was beautiful, Frances. Unlike anything I have heard before."

— "Yeah. I felt like I was flying above this all," confirmed Galahad's voice, as if he was in a trance.

Bors exclamation behind them approved and Frances smiled.

— "I am glad you enjoyed it."

Before they could discuss it further, Arthur's horse came beside them on the right side.

— "I too, have found your voice truly angelic. But the language was unknown to me, and thus I didn't catch the meaning."

Busted! English, Gaelic … old Norsk! Which one of those existed in England now? She had a few notions, but nothing sharp enough to give her guidance on the language the Britons were speaking in the fifth century. The only thing she did know was that their language was very different from English. Tristan's eyes were nowhere in sight; she could probably afford a little lie.

— "It is a dialect I learnt as a child. As for the meaning, it speaks of Yule, and the coming of Jesus Christ, of course."

Arthur's eyes seemed to lighten up at this, and Frances heard a few groans around her. Her pride at their praise was dampened a bit by their reaction, but it was to be expected. This olive branch was destined, after all, to their commander.

— "Are you a Christian, Lady Frances?"

Trust Arthur to call her a lady.

— "Nay, Sir Arthur. But it is part of my culture, and I respect men in their faith, especially when it leads them to act with a higher consciousness."

— "And pray, lady, what are your Gods called?" came Lancelot's ironic voice.

The first knight had come to the other side, effectively sandwiching her between the commander and himself. This was a sensitive discussion. What can of worms had she opened without thinking!

— "My Gods are called the Valar, and I have a few misgivings about their recent decisions. Here that, up there?

Frances' shout, directed to the heavens, elicited a few chuckles. It hid her uneasiness easily enough, as she knew her words to not be entirely true. She, a frantic atheist, had been faced with the impossibility of the elvish race recently. The very existence of Gandalf, a maiar and servant of the Valar, had sent her world spinning around. She'd had to admit that the Valar were no myth, and that they were superior beings in charge of the magical Arda. Did she consider them Gods? Not truly, but the notion would be too difficult to convey.

— "So you're a pagan, like us?" came Galahad's tense voice.

— "A pagan?"

— "That's what they call us, those damn Romans."

Ah this, Frances couldn't help but bark a mirthless laugh. Her last visit at Lyon's museum talked at length about the roman's religion and Sainte Blandine, in particular, martyred in Lugdunum. Thank God her long term memory never faltered.

— "How ironic, when they were the ones that burned dear Jesus Christ not so long ago. Weren't the Romans pagans themselves? It is but two hundred years that Rome has been converted to Christianism. If I recall correctly, Sainte Blandine was a martyr in Lugdunum on ground of being a heretic herself. Burnt, bled and tortured, uh?"

Beside her, Arthur seemed deep in thought. In truth, he was surprised by the extended knowledge of the young woman. And she had a point, a very sore point if he may add. Yet, she didn't seem eager to attack him on his faith, only criticising the inconsistency of the Roman empire as a whole.

— "You are correct. Yet now, Rome had recognised the sovereignty of our Lord, and changed its ways to the better."

Lancelot scoffed as his commander, a harsh sound to which Arthur did not respond.

— "To me, all our gods are the same as long as they watch over us. But with our free will, we can also guide ourselves to betterment,"

Arthur nodded silently; his green eyes boring into her as he concluded.

— "And this is why you can sing so beautifully of the saviour's coming."

* * *

[1] 'Je voudrais vous revoir', Jean-Jacques Goldman. Do not hesitate to listen to it, it is beautiful.


	6. The Bishop - Reviewed

**Hey. I'm back with another chapter, and a little fighting. I hope you're not getting confused with Frances' complicated storyline; her life is a little hectic and crosses many fandoms. Once more, feel free to check Frances' timeline on my profile if it makes it a little clearer. I have not one review yet, and am wondering if people read this. But anyway, I'm quite decided to get this story to completion, so here we go.**

She could feel the anticipation in the knights' veins at they came closer to the main road. At last, they formed a line at the top of a hill, all of them clad in armour under the brilliant sun, and Frances gaped at their magnificence. They were quite a sight to behold as they waited from the carriage of the Bishop to come forth. Arthur's intelligence left no doubt, for once more he had found the best of spots to embrace the view over the road. Or was it the scout's choice? The wind blew slightly at their unkempt hair, from the south west, from the direction the Bishop was supposed to come from. Friendly banter was exchanged, but most of the wait happened in silence. It was a brilliant day for them, the day of their freedom. Yet, somewhere in the back of her mind, Frances couldn't help the looming weight that had settled on her chest. If the events were meant to unfold brightly, she wouldn't be there, wouldn't she?

— "The carriage! There!" shouted Galahad, almost bouncing on the saddle.

Dagonet turned his horse sideways, providing the view for Frances who rode behind him since morning.

— "Thank you," she told him as she patted his arm.

At once, all riders descended the grassy hill in a canter. It was the most difficult of paces for Frances, for she had to adapt to Dagonet's tall stature as he lifted himself from the saddle in rhythm. But she shouldn't have worried about the canter, for suddenly, blue devils washed down from the woods like a wave of madness.

— "Woads!" cried Bors in his powerful voice.

It was all it took for the knights to urge their mounts forward. A mere hundred yards from the battle, Arthur suddenly turned to Dagonet, and his eyes widened.

— "Leave her here!" he yelled above the mane of his horse barreling at full gallop.

Frances couldn't even voice her protest before Dagonet slowed his horse down and expertly twisted her with his meaty arm. Her feet touched the floor at great speed, and she ran alongside as the knight's horse passed her. She could fight, she would fight! The young woman darted off, her heart beating hard as she took in the scene down the hill. Arrows flew everywhere, the Roman soldiers trying, and failing to defend the carriage as they died. The knights were upon them in an instant, slicing and dicing from their horses. Her legs pumped the blood in her veins as she ran. The distance closed off, but not fast enough as Frances saw the knights dismount, except for Galahad and Tristan who kept firing arrows with deadly precision. Only Sarmatian could possibly be so skilled while shooting on horseback! Gauwain, Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet could be seen, as well as Arthur with his long sword. The woads were no match for their skills, and very soon the tide of the battle turned. As she ran, Frances spotted the lady Hawk circling above Tristan's head. The bird was watching over him!

And then, Tristan dismounted as well, so graceful that it reminded her of her beloved elf. One strike of his sword, one woad on the floor. And thus he moved, pulling his blade like a death sentence, and each of his moves send an enemy to the ground, dead. Clean cuts, Japanese style mainly, it suited his choice of sword, his technique flawless and much different from his fellow knights. Closer to Frances' style than medieval. It was a fascinating dance, a deadly dance, but one Frances couldn't possibly linger to watch. Leaving her bow behind, she took a leap across the stream, and jumped into the chaos. At once, her sword was moving, incapacitating the blue devils as she passed; they'd overlooked her approach. It had been a long time since she had killed, three years ever since her last battle at the feet of the black gate. She'd nearly died that day, but her killings had mostly consisted of orcs. Now, she battled against human beings. Her mind refused to hurt them, stilling her blade in the midst of the battle like it had, in Rome, when she'd faced her first kill. Frances's breath was short, her heart wild as she turned around, sword in hand. 'Shake yourself!', her mind yelled at her as she avoided a dagger to the gut. There was no time to consider, and Frances fell into the familiar pattern of battle. Mind blank, senses honed out, analysing before striking, emotionless.

Her skills were not equal to those of the knights, far from it, and sometimes it was all she could do to avoid a blade headed her way. But she was fast, and stronger than she used to be. Legolas, Aragorn and her own years of Aikido had taught her much. And so, her sword sunk into guts, grazed arms and limbs, hacked away at flesh with a sickening sound in the disorganised chaos. Had the adrenalin of the battle not lead her, she'd probably sunk down weeping at the destruction she left in her path. The woads though, a good set of warriors in close range, were not as skilled with blades. Most of them clenched daggers in their hands, and albeit they were sneaky, Frances' sword reached further. She knew all the dirty tricks from her training in Interpol. When her blade was snatched out from her grasp in a skirmish, she seized the knife at her waist, and attacked another woad viciously in her path. In the fray, something seemed amiss, as if the blue devils fled her rather than attacking her. But she couldn't care less as she ducked, spun, and hit with fists, elbows, knees and legs. No matter how she detested taking a life, she'd had seven years of hand-to-hand combat under her belt. Sword or not, Frances was a strength to reckon with.

Very soon, there were no devils left alive on the battlefield, and Frances stopped in her tracks, chest heaving in exertion, sweat trickling on her brow as she washed it away with her wrist. Her armour was strangely devoid of any stabbing, her tunic not drenched in blood. Weird. As if none of her enemies had attacked her directly. As she took in the destruction around her, her blade suddenly appeared before her weary eyes. Tristan sent her a funny look as she retrieved it from him. Frances only nodded her thanks, not trusting her voice as she flicked the blood of her blade. Red blood, human blood. The young lady closed her eyes an instant, but a fierce battle cry called her back to reality.

— "RUUUUUUUUUUS"

It would be time, later, to be in shock. For now, Bors was roaring at the misty forest in an attempt to warn the woads away. Frances lifted her eyes to the trees, the strange fog dancing around its roots, before deciding to retrieve her bow left on the other side of the stream. There she stayed for a while, taking in the ruthless battle that had just occurred, and the sad fact that she'd inflicted and death without mercy.

The knights were killing the wounded, Arthur had just let one of them go and he scrambled away to its people. Then, the commander's green eyes came to rest upon her. Maybe he had not seen her in the battle? She'd rather avoid a scolding in her current state of mind. She was sickened with herself, sickened of those deaths, of the devastation her blade had woven within the blue people. Even if they wanted to kill her, even if she was protecting her newfound friends, she was sickened to have defended a Roman and extinguished the sacred spark of life in other human beings. And when the bishop eventually made his appearance, she would have vomited right there and then such was the falseness, the hypocrisy on his face. Arthur's gaze turned to the Roman, forgetting about her, and it was just as well. Frances, wobbly legs took her to the stream where she attempted to wash her hands from the bloodshed. Adrenaline was rushing out, and she sank to her knees, white as a sheet.

It was there that Dagonet found her. His powerful body was covered in blood and gore, a sight not unknown to Frances who has fought in the war of the ring. Except that this one was bright red instead of black, a flowing and sacred life force rather than a perverted one. She understood now, why the knights seemed broken. For fifteen years, they'd been shedding blood for Rome, for the empire that allowed slavery, and killed its own, to prevent people from taking back what was rightfully theirs. How could Arthur condone it? Dagonet offered his hand, afraid to spook the lady, and Frances took it, her own cold from its bath in the stream. Then he lifted her up on Galahad's horse, the less bloody of them, and on they went.

The ride back was silent for a while, until the knights took the lead, and were out of earshot of the Bishop's carriage. Arthur had sent her a heated look, one that said that he wasn't ignorant, and they'd talk about it later. For the moment though, the road seemed clear, and the wall came into view. The fortress itself was squarely designed, a Roman fort like any other, with a tall wall of grey rocks that came from the land. Granite, or gneiss, probably. The sunrays heated Frances' face, but she didn't relish in its warmth. Her heart was burdened by the deaths she had caused. Her first real kill. Sometimes, her body trembled. Fortunately, the movement of the horse hid it quite properly. The figure of Tristan, popping out by her left side, surprised her. His piercing gaze held her in his power, as if in assessment. She wondered what he saw, if it was her weakness, or a quick check of her health. But then, he bowed his head to her, and her face changed into a puzzled expression.

— "You did well," came Gauwain's voice, as if translating the silent scout's words.

— "Did well ‼ she's a killer, that one!"

That was Bors, and his less than subtle way to give her some tribute. Frances flinched at his words; meant as a compliment, they troubled her greatly. Tristan urged his mount forward to join Gauwain and Galahad, they were discussing their future. She badly hoped there'd be one. And when Galahad voiced his concerns about the Bishop, she couldn't help but interject.

— "I feel it too. There is something wrong with this man. He is as fake as they come, and something dark looms in his eyes."

Gauwain glanced at her, unsettled by her statement, but Frances's attention was elsewhere, her gaze set on the scout. It was her father who first taught her to read people through their look. He said the eyes never lied; she'd verified this statement so very often that she adopted it as her own. What she saw in Tristan's gaze, what lingered still as he stared back at her, impressed by her readings on the Bishop, was difficult to comprehend. There was darkness there, and great sorrow. It spoke of a broken man, unpredictable, and deadly, for he held human life in no great value. But somewhere in their depth, deep down between the specks of brown that marred their beautiful grey, hope existed still. Hope that dwindled every day, but had not faded entirely.

Gauwain broke away from the staring contest, wondering what the lady and the scout could be silently conversing about, to poke fun at his brother knight.

— "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans? They won't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony."

— "Mind the lady," came Dagonet's voice drowned by Frances laughter.

— "Ah never mind, Dagonet. I've heard worse. Much, much worse"

Frances didn't add 'in engineering school', but the words were on the tip of her tongue.

— "Such as?"

This time, Frances flushed, and laughed out loud. Nope, nope and nope, she couldn't relate any of the horrible jokes she'd heard about fist-fucking and the likes. Yuck! Once more, she wondered how she would ever be able to fit in this horrible school, where fifty percent of the student had such a terrible humour. The knight couldn't even come close to that on a drunken day. Turning to Bors, she stuck her tongue out.

— "You don't want to have this conversation, believe me. And neither do I"

Her eyes lit up as she laughed, her cheeks turning a lovely shade of pink. Tristan schooled his features with his usual mask of indifference, refusing to find her lovely. By then, Galahad had insulted him, claiming that he killed for pleasure, and the scout hid his anger behind a stony face. How has they not understood, after fifteen years by his side, that his killing spree was just an endless revenge for his brothers in arms? But he'd never admit it, and instead of letting the young knight get under his skin, he just answered evenly.

— "Well, you should try it someday. You might get a taste for it."

There. If this didn't scare the fairy away, he didn't know what would. He was a hopeless broken man, and didn't want her to get in danger on his behalf. There'd be enough work with keeping the others alive is something bad happened.

— "lt's a part of you. lt's in your blood." Answered Bors.

Galahad's vehemence almost moved him. There was so much anger in his posture, and bitterness. Like any of them, except that he didn't know what to do with it, except to get drunk.

— "No, no, no. No" came his young voice. "As of tomorrow this was all just a bad memory."

As Galahad rode ahead, Tristan couldn't help but see Frances' hand going to the young knight's shoulder in comfort. The scout urged his horse a little forward, placing himself half a pace behind them, another half in front of his fellow knights. Alone, but in range to observe, his favourite spot. Gauwain and Bors were discussing their plans to get back to Sarmatia, or not in the case of the latter. Laden with eleven children, Bors had found his happiness. Lancelot's playful banter intruded, and he left after telling Gauwain that his wife would probably welcome his company. Tristan smirked slightly; another one who wore a mask, another one as wounded as he was, but coping differently. The lady's posture in front told him she was following the conversation albeit keeping a straight face. He even saw her shoulders shaking with laughter as Lancelot passed them to catch up with Arthur. The wink the handsome knight sent her was answered by a playful roll of her eyes.

A piercing cry calls him to attention, and Tristan whistled, shooting his arm up in the sky. A moment later, his lady hawk landed on his glove, its claws digging strongly to receive a piece of dried meat.

— "Where you been, now? Where you been?" he asked, ruffling its feather playfully.

— "She was watching over you during the battle."

Tristan's gaze lifted to the young lady who had turned in the saddle, and she smiled tentatively. He was shocked when his horse came closer, directed by his thighs even if he couldn't recall making the movement. Frances extended her hand, and grazing softly at the bird's feather.

— "She is very loyal, and cares about you," said Frances in a low voice.

— "I fear her loyalty is wavering."

His face was straight, but his eyes held some mirth as her fingers stroked the bird's breast gently. Lady Hawk, after all, was very welcoming in regards to the little fairy.

— "I think not, for I too, will watch over you."

Then, Galahad urged his mount forward, leaving a dumbfounded scout in its wake as he drove Frances away from his side. The lady frowned, spooked by the animosity between those two. Galahad was so young, so angry, he didn't handle it all that well. The huge wall of the fort was now casting shadows at their feet, and she couldn't help but overhear the conversation between Lancelot and Arthur.

— "And what will you do, Arthur, when you return to your beloved Rome?"

— "Give thanks to God that l survived to see it," came his deep voice.

— "You and your god! You disturb me."

— "l want peace, Lancelot. l've had enough. You should visit me."

The first knight couldn't contain his disdain.

— "Ah!"

— "Lt's a magnificent place, Rome. Ordered, civilised, advanced"

— "A breeding ground of arrogant fools."

At this, Frances couldn't help but snort. For once, she was quite inclined to agree with Lancelot. Yes, Rome was organised, and a place where all great minds could thrive … provided they came from a wealthy family. Pline the young, and the elder had, for sure, been of those minds. Only for the first to witness his uncle's death in the Vesuvio's eruption. As for the rest, slaves, daughters or sons, weak minds and poor people, they'd just have to survive its perversion and horror.

— "How long have you not set foot in Rome, Commander?" she eventually asked.

Startled, Arthur gave her a wistful look.

— "It has been a very long time. What about you?"

— "Six years ago, give or take."

She couldn't possibly tell them that she'd visited Rome in 2002, landing in 192 AD as Commodus killed Maximus in the Coliseum under her very eyes. The very same Coliseum she'd seen as a teenager, half-broken, and emptied of its cruel crowds in the first year of the second millennia. Her silence, though, taught Arthur everything he needed to know, and Lancelot lifted a dark eyebrow.

— "I take it that Rome didn't call at your heart?"

Frances nearly choked down on her response. It had been the first time she'd lost a friend to cruelty. She struggled to level her answer, trying to sound detached.

— "I have gazed upon its magnificence, and suffered through its depravity. Don't get me wrong. The architecture is stunning, the organisation as well. Bath houses, drainage and such, the cleanliness, all of this has some merit. The juicy peaches in summer, the fountains in the streets, and the blazing sun upon the rocks were fabulous. But its people…"

The commander frowned, and Frances's next words caught in her throat. She didn't want to hurt him, to tell him he'd been fighting for a horrible empire, but how could he be so blind? It was infuriating, to know that the knight had given their lives for such depravity, that his men were broken for the glory of Rome!

— "The Roman culture does not hold the same appeal to you as to me?"

Nibbling on her lower lip, the young woman tried to choose her words. In front of her, Galahad was tense, and he squeezed her arm in warning.

— "I am sorry to say so, Arthur. I value bravery, and honesty above all. There was none of that in Rome, but much hypocrisy. The political games are sickening. Forgive me, but what can we expect from people who murdered their own? I'm sure no one could ever forget how Maximus Decimus Meridius was killed by the emperor Commodus himself in the arena. After an unfair fight, for he was previously wounded! What kind of moral allows slavery, allows people to be slaughtered in the coliseum, and human beings to be sold as pieces of furniture?"

Hearing such harsh words, Arthur nodded stiffly, and urged his horse forward. Frances sighed in defeat.

— "I'm sorry," she murmured to Galahad, utterly miserable.

The knight shrugged as Arthur's stern voice called at the guards.

— "Open the gates!"

Lancelot watched his friend's tense shoulders as he disappeared ahead, and turned his inquisitive eyes to the young woman behind Galahad's saddle. He had to admit that she had guts. He's spotted her fighting in the melee, quite proficiently at that, albeit he had yet to see her wielding her long Dao. The blade was so alike Tristan's sword that he wondered if she used it the same way. And now she had the gall to tell Arthur about his beloved Rome, to crush his dreams with softly spoken words. There was no denying her truth, even if it was just one point of view. But his experience of Romans inclined him to believe her, rather than Arthur's ideals. Her face, though, was dejected. Lancelot leaned in the saddle, and winked at her in his most charming way.

— "And the women?"

This time, Frances smiled, and slapped his arm playfully.

— "You, Sir Knight, are a cad!"


	7. Regrouping - Reviewed

**_Hey, a few additions in this remastered chapter. I have also modified the section of Vanora's singing because I was told – with reason – that I had passed over it too quickly. True, this is a pretty important moment of the movie that I rewatched just for this moment's sake._**

Frances was pleasantly surprised at Bors's suggestion that she have his room for the night. After all, she expected them to send her on her way upon arrival, especially since they directly walked into a meeting with the Bishop to receive their discharge papers. Without money, she was already wondering where she would spend the night. But Bors had adopted her since she had thrown herself in battle, and without even asking permission to Arthur, dragged her to his unoccupied room.

— "Stay here, we'll meet in the tavern after the Roman is finished with us. We'll ask around for your man"

To say Frances was touched by his thoughtfulness was an understatement. Stunned, the young woman stood in the small room as Bors disappeared from sight. From the looks of it, he had not slept there for ages. The place was damp, faintly smelling of mould and dust. The sheets seemed clean enough, if rough under her fingers. As for the blanket, coarse wool, she knew she would have to sleep fully clothed to prevent from itching everywhere. The knights probably had a maid that took care of the washing, for nothing was stained. How many times had she stumbled into Lancelot's bed ? She wondered. How different the dark knight was from the legends she had read and studied. They all were… and so was the era. For the moment, there seemed to be no Queen, no Guinevere. The knights didn't make any mention of her, especially Lancelot. Perhaps later, perhaps it was all another artistic licence and Arthur had never been married to a Guinevere. Merlin, though, was another puzzle. Lancelot had mentioned to the bishop that he was leader of the enemies… What a mess !

Finding a bowl of warm water occupied Frances for half an hour as she roamed the empty corridors. The fort was made of sturdy grey rock, the openings scare which created a gloomy atmosphere. It must have been stifling for people used to live in yurts in the open, especially for the scout. The knight's quarters were probably well protected, and she eventually found someone in the kitchens to help her. The only issue… the middle aged woman didn't speak Latin much, and Frances not a word of Briton. Damn ! Nor Celt, nor Gaelic. And she rambled a lot – probably shocked to find a young woman in breeches in the knight's quarters - until they eventually managed to exchange a few words in latin and Frances could drag a bucket back to her room to refresh a little. As she brushed her hair and changed her tunic, the Keeper of Time wondered if the people of the fort would speak Briton or Latin or both. It wouldn't be the first time she didn't speak the main language, but in Rivendell at least, people switched to common tongue whenever she was near. A courtesy she didn't expect here.

After an hour or so – by her internal clock – Dagonet appeared on the threshold to lead her to the tavern. The tall knight led her through the fort, his strides long, not oblivious that the young woman by his side observed with wide eyes the scenery around her. He could understand that someone coming from far away would find the fort intimidating. Still, Lugdunum was a far greater city.

Odd.

Frances took in every little detail as she walked, to the feel of the cobbled street below her supple elvish boots to the stalls still opened. They passed a very busy street were cobbler, seamstress, blacksmith and many other dealers sold merchandise. Walking in a fifth century Roman fort was awesome ! And the quick refresh had done wonders; she felt much better in her new tunic and long woollen overcoat, long hair flowing across her back and sword strapped at her hip. At last, they made it to the tavern: a place where inside and outside held no meaning for the whole place was open around a cobbled square. Those Britons really didn't feel the cold. And for sure, most of the conversation around her made no sense to her. Brittonic, great !

When Lancelot joined them around the table, he pretended to be offended at her appearance.

— "What, no dress? Not even a little cleavage for sore eyes?"

Frances smirked, refraining the need to tug at one of his dark curls.

— "My eyes are sore as well, and I don't see a skirt to compliment your perfect locks."

His dark eyes bore holes into her as he reached for her hair. The long strands caressed her waist, twisted by the braid so that it created a waterfall of reddish waves. A sight to behold! And he wasn't the only one staring, as half of the tavern was already ogling the woman in breeches. Frances instinctively pulled back, and freed her strand from his grasp as she stood.

— "This, dear Lancelot, is a guarded territory. Find someone to sit on your lap instead."

And she fled to the bar, finding there a very stoic Tristan whose gaze was thoroughly fixed on the apple he was slicing. She'd heard the talk and whispers about the scout; no one would dare approach her here. No one but Vanora, Bors' lover, who was looking for a pair of friendly arms to soothe her latest son. Seeing that Bors was on good terms with the lady, she shoved the moving bundle into Frances' arms without ceremony.

— "There, little one. I'll be back soon," she whispered to the baby.

And then, she stared at Frances seriously:

— "He just ate, put him on your shoulder a bit, will you? Thank you, lady knight"

— "But …?" stuttered Frances, her arms loaded with a chubby toddler.

A few feet away, Gawain chuckled at her disgruntled expression before launching a knife into a stool.

— "Ah, no buts. You're a woman, you know what to do."

Right. 5th century predicament and sexism. Panicked beyond understanding, Frances tightened her hold on the swaddled baby. He smelt of stale milk and coarse linen, the cap upon his head a worn cloth of … whatever it was. The chubby little guy looked at her hopefully, his deep blue gaze searching this new and very unfamiliar face.

— "I'm useless with kids," she grounded.

— "Nonsense," came Galahad's voice as he landed a heavy arm on her shoulder.

Frances shook him off, frowning intently at his inebriated state. Drunks always made her uncomfortable; she never knew whether she should be nice and understanding or shoved them away harshly. And Galahad had been a prefect gentleman until there. By her side, Tristan stood from his stool, a strange gleam shining in his golden eyes. She could have sworn the corner of his lips had lifted in a smile, which only intensified the cringe of her eyebrows.

— "I do bow and arrows, I wield a sword and I study mathematics, biology and geology. I don't do kids"

Galahad shrugged, his movements slower than on the battlefield because of the alcohol.

— "Bah, you'll manage. In the meantime, you can observe my winning."

And then, he joined his brother in arms in the game, his blade landing a few inches above Gawain who sat back at the table, draining his wooden cup. How he managed to land a dagger in his inebriated state was a wonder ! A small tug at her scalp indicated that the baby had found a loose strand to play with. After all, she shared hair color with his mother, although Vanora's was slightly lighter… and natural, lucky woman. She had to admit that the waitress was incredibly good looking, especially after eleven babies ! Frowning, Frances gave up the idea to get her strand of hair back; the toddler was already munching upon it and it would hopefully keep him quiet.

A slight movement beside her called her attention ; Frances lifted her head just in time to spot the easy swing of Tristan's wrist as he carelessly tossed his own knife. He must have been at least two feet behind but the blade landed true, embedding into the tip of Galahad's handle. Both knights turned to him, as stunned as they were pissed and Frances bit her lip to refrain from openly gaping. Damn, this was talent like she'd never witnessed. Not even Legolas had ever shown her such a feat !

— "Tristan!", came Galahad's voice, unable to voice more than surprise.

But Gawain, sitting happily with a wench massaging his shoulder, couldn't refrain from asking.

— "How do you do that?"

The scout took a bite of his apple and answered innocently, pointing at the knives like a drunk man:

— "I aim for the middle."

Frances didn't know if it was his straight face or the look of absolute dejection on the other's feature that sent her in peals of laughter. Tristan turned around, his eyes shining with mirth and her smile widened at the sight. It was rather foreign to see him enjoying himself, but she swore that buried under his beard, the corner of his mouths were upturned. The amusement, though, was short-lived as the swaddle in her arms started whimpering louder and louder. Panicked, Frances walked around, the baby cradled against her chest. She was so tense that her muscles ached. And then, as his cries assaulted her hears, she lifted him up on her shoulder and started singing the first lullaby that came to her. The Skye boat song. Not fit for children, for it spoke of Bonnie Prince Charles fleeing the massacre of Culloden moor, but she didn't have much better in mind. She loved the 'Outlander' series, and Iron Maiden would have been a little pushy.

_"Sing me a song of a lass that is gone  
Say, could that lass be I?  
Merry of soul she sailed on a day  
Over the sea to Skye"_

Her voice, low and soothing at first, started to rise as the baby responded. Releasing a little burp on her shoulder, she repositioned him in her arms, and begun to spin slowly, lost in the baby's blue gaze. Despite the swaddle of dirty linen, she had to admit that he was charming… and shared a few of Bors' features. The tavern was noisy, who would care about her singing? And so, oblivious to the world, Frances sang, her voice deeper, stronger than before as if she had no care in the world. And the knights stopped bellowing, and drinking, and playing as the young woman's notes echoed on the roof.

_"Billow and breeze, islands and seas  
Mountains of rain and sun  
All that was good, all that was fair  
All that was me is gone."_

Tristan watched the fairy as she unknowingly enchanted his brothers, her powerful voice touching their hearts and souls as she became more confident. Fortunately, her eyes were set on the baby, for he knew she would have shied away had she realised that a circle of patrons had their attention fixed upon her now, the ones sitting directly across the bar. The scout frowned at some of the men, their gazes lustful. Frances was not meant for them, not for any of them. Her voice was dedicated to her bright lover, and no one else. No one would ever touch her; he'd made sure of it.

"_Sing me a song of a lass that is gone  
Say, could that lass be I?  
Merry of soul she sailed on a day  
Over the sea to Skye_"

A round of applause welcomed the end of her performance, and Frances' posture suddenly shifted, her shoulders tense. The baby in her arms started crying anew, and Bors came along to retrieve his son. She sighed dejectedly, relinquishing the tight hold on the swaddle, and disappeared in a corner. Her hair followed her like a cascade of fire, lit by the blazing flames of the hearth. She'd said so herself, she was not good with babies. Mayhap someone would tell her someday that she had done well enough, if not for the child, for the rest of them at least. But it wouldn't be him. He was the silent scout, after all, not a ladies' man, nor a mushy friend. And so it was with great surprise that, when the young lady emerged again, she strode directly to him, her eyes locked on his face. Few people dared watching him so blatantly, fewer still challenged him to a staring contest. Her jaw was set, her gait determined. And for once, Tristan found himself bracing himself without his face giving anything away. What did she want?

Frances crossed the tavern in a few strides, trying to appear confident. Forsooth, she only wanted to get to the point before she lost her nerve. And thus, as she came to the scout's side, she asked bluntly.

— "Can you help me ?"

Tristan only lifted an eyebrow, giving her the silent treatment until she relented. Frances stared back, pissed that his method of intimidation would work so well. Already, she had lost the sentences she'd prepared, and struggled not to babble her concerns out.

— "I need your insight"

A second eyebrow joined the first, indicating that he was taken off guard. People probably didn't ask him for his thoughts so often – they usually avoided him altogether. Except for Arthur and his brothers in arms of course.

— "Speak," came his gruff reply.

Frances exhaled, trying to dissipate her uneasiness. To no avail. That man had a chilling presence, and one's heart could only miss a beat when faced with his undivided attention; a predicament reminiscing of Lord Elrond's study. Tristan would probably be pleased to know how efficient his intimidating stance could be. The young lady repressed a snort at that, amused, and the tension radiated off.

— "During the battle with the woads, I felt like the blue devils were avoiding me. Or rather, not trying to kill me. I was the one who engaged them mostly."

His intense stare caused her to babble, and Frances hated herself for it. Damn, she was a Keeper of Time, not a schoolgirl.

— "It might be a stupid notion, I'm not that accustomed to skirmishes like these, and yet…"

A simple nod was her answer, and for a moment, Tristan's eyes glazed over, recalling the battle and the things he had noticed as well. He wondered if his brothers had seen it also; he had not spoken openly of his observations to them after the fiasco with the Bishop. It all seemed rather pointless now that freedom was at hand. Of course, he'd watched her during the battle: once because he still didn't trust her, and secondly because of his scouting habits. Tristan looked out for his brothers, always and foremost, and covered their backs with arrows. And he had to admit that her fighting had him surprised. Not only because of her skills who were, in fact, better that he thought they'd be. Several times, he saved an arrow because she had felled an enemy before he could react. One of them, in particular, had nearly got to Gawain back before he could shoot. But Frances' blade had sliced his calf, hence saving the blond knight from a nasty cut or worse.

— "The engaged you when in danger, and some out of anger at the end"

Frances nodded once, a frown marring her features. Tristan almost chuckled at her worried expression, it gave an adorable crunch on her small nose. But smiles didn't come easy to him. In reality, he was surprised by the accuracy of her observations. In the midst of the battle, she had still managed to maintain a general awareness of her surroundings, and analysed it properly. A good scout material, that fairy. Yes, the Woads had avoided her, and he would bet his life that it wasn't because of her being female. Their women fought, some as fiercely as men. Perhaps that her magical appearance had something to do with it? He knew the Woads to have some magical beliefs, and acute sense of what transpired in their woods. But, all in all, what baffled him the most was her willingness to share this with him. The honestly of her words doubled with the earnest light in her eyes told him she was not deceiving him. Perhaps then, he could learn to trust her. She said she would fight for him … and so far, she had. Tristan would have shaken his head had he not picked up the habit to be still like a statue. Too much unknown, not enough information to make up his mind. Well, maybe later.

For the moment, Bors was leading Vanora into the courtyard for her to sing. And despite her protests, the redhead waitress eventually obliged. Her voice rose, a little coarse, but powerful enough to be heard. The words she sang were Briton; they held no meaning to Frances who couldn't understand them. Still, the strange longing it contained called to her heart. And when Vanora tightened her arms on her last born, the melody swaying like waves at sea, an intense feeling of melancholy swept over her. Tears sprang to her eyes, expertly hidden as she blinked them away. A quick glance over the courtyard told her the knights were engrossed. All of them. Galahad was singing along, his bearded face ten years younger. Dagonet stood, silent. Like a rock, too sturdy to weep, albeit his eyes longed to. Lancelot kept his head down, the cheeky knight overwhelmed just as well. From her point of view, she couldn't discern Gawain nor Bors' face, but Tristan… Tristan's features softened, the stoic scout giving way to a man whose youth had been stolen. A man who longed to find where he belonged.

Vanora's singing touched him just as much as the rest, but he refused to let it show. Slicing his apple methodically, he let the blade slide across the flesh to focus his mind. But try as he might, he couldn't help but be affected by the mood. What would home look like now? Had his tribe moved in the fifteen long years he'd been away, wandering the unending plains of Sarmatia? How about his mother? His elder sister? Would she be married? A mother? Dead? Would horror marr her face at seeing what he had become, her little brother turned into a deadly scout? A broken man, with no smile adorning his features, his hands twitching to shed blood in revenge, incapable of loving and bestowing affection on his nieces and nephews? What life laid beyond their release?

Arthur's appearance in the tavern sent cold dread in the pit of his stomach. His commander and friend's expression did not bode well, and he was still surprised that no one picked up on his mood. Mayhap his fellow knights were too intoxicated to see what pain lingered in his eyes, but he wasn't. No matter what, Tristan never got drunk; it would mean relinquishing control.

As Arthur came closer and swallowed nervously, Tristan's eyes caught Frances'. She had not left his side, nor moved from her spot; he had nearly forgotten she was there, wallowing in his self-pity. Blending in her surroundings, she'd patiently waited for the world to shift as Vanora sang. That, in itself, was a feat; to be forgotten by the scout. Maybe he felt more at ease with her that he'd dared admit. And the worried look in her eyes, now, told him he wasn't the only one feeling that doom was about to deal a crushing blow. He bowed his head to her, and joined his fellow knights. Definitely scout material, that little fairy.

And when Arthur told them a last mission was asked of them, a suicide ride to rescue a forsaken Roman family north of the wall – NORTH OF THE WALL ‼! – Tristan quenched the burning anger at the Bishop's treason, choosing rather to taunt his fellow brothers. He knew them by heart by now, Gawain's silent disappointment, Galahad's drunken anger and childish behaviour as he crushed his jar at Arthur's feet, Bors's yells, and eventually, Dagonet's acceptance. Always the voice of reason. A father to all. And Lancelot, trying once more to appeal to Arthur and his commander's stern answer. There is nothing Arthur could do, no matter how willing he would have been, to avoid this predicament. There was no point arguing. Tristan disappeared in the dark; he needed to find Hawk.


	8. Going North - Reviewed

**_Anyway. I promised this chapter to my dear _****_Tobiramamara_****_. Check her story on the mischievious twins of Elrond in the Lord of the Rings section, it is worth a detour!_**

The altercation that followed Vanora's beautiful song sent the knights if fits of anger. Frances, hidden in the shadows, didn't dare uttering a word. She felt bad for Arthur; his own wrath written all over his face as he asked of his brothers this last suicide mission. Trapped between the hammer and the anvil, what a difficult position! The commander didn't react to Lancelot's lashing, nor to Galahad's harsh actions, but in those green eyes were an Ocean ready to lay waste on the rest of the world. His jaw, though, was the only indication of the tempest raging inside. There was the King of legend, the leader of man who could set aside his own feelings and do what needed to be done. Damn Rome, once more, for eternity! Frances knew anyway that the empire was falling, and would fall hard. It was just a matter of time before it became history.

The young woman dallied a little in the tavern, but not overly long. The stares she received from Romans and Briton men alike froze her blood more than once, and the few comments she understood didn't help. Frances eventually set off after Lancelot to the stables. It was just as well that her memory was so good at remembering maps and directions. Sword strapped at her hip, she walked with purpose, long strides silent on the paved streets. The best way to fend off any drunk stragglers that might want to stop and talk to her, or worse. She'd perfected that art over the years of loneliness. Be it in a modern world or in a medieval one, Frances knew how to repel any man with her attitude.

Raised voices in the stables caught her attention, and she paced herself. Frances didn't want to intrude, but knew that the conversation would probably be heated if Lancelot had indeed found his commander. Her guess was confirmed as Arthur's stern voice reached her, at once interrupted by the first knight's anger. Pure and powerful anger laced with despair as his voice cracked afterwards. Now, it gave her a few minutes to gather herself and think about how she could convince Arthur to let her tag along. Her body was still humming from the knight's anger, and she breathed in slowly. Her permeability to others' feeling was a strength as much as a curse. How she hated confrontations, and people lashing out at loved ones! It always disturbed her greatly. And for sure, she realised she was shaking. Frances crossed her arms over her slight form, and pulled her cape around her wool coat in an attempt to warm herself. It was getting very chilly.

Heavy footsteps shook her from her musings. As Lancelot passed her, he shot her a look that, for once, was nor guarded nor playful. There was fear in his dark orbs, fear of what may happen to his fellow knights, and his commander. His hand found his way to her shoulder, his head bowed for a while, the contact desperate.

— "Go. He badly needs a song right now, or a woman's touch."

So the flirt wasn't dead yet. Frances rolled her eyes, and took his hint. Lancelot watched her retreating form, waterfall of fire swaying over her waist as she disappeared in the stables. If she knew what she walked into… she was one hell of a woman !

The building was huge, and dark, even with the torches burning on the walls. Horses were at rest, but the lone man at the end of the hall was not. Yet, he sensed her presence before she was close enough. Fifteen years of fighting could do this to a man. Straightening up, the commander sent her a stern look.

— "Lady Frances"

The Keeper of Time almost sighed at the title; here or on Arda, people with manners persisted to call her a lady. Maybe someday she'd have to accept that it was what they thought her to be. But not now.

— "Commander. I won't intrude on your privacy for long, for I gather you probably want to be alone."

Arthur's green eyes softened at that. Yes. He very much wanted solitude, but wouldn't take his anger on her.

— "Is there anything you needed?"

— "Yes. Your approval"

Silence. Arthur's temper surged at that. He had no time for petty matters. His voice filled with anger as he responded, his patience getting thin.

— "As you have probably heard, my knights and myself will be gone tomorrow at the first hour. What can you possibly request of me?"

— "I wish to accompany you on your last mission."

Mind numb, Arthur staggered, his hand finding the wooden railing. His mouth opened, then closed, before he could regain his bearings.

— "Out of the question"

The young woman stared at him, undeterred by his refusal and he marvelled at her ability to stand her ground under his glare. Many knights used to shudder when he displayed his full regalia, most of them gone by now. Frances took a step forward, her stance confident.

— "I can fight"

— "I don't care"

His words left his mouth before he could backtrack, their rudeness so out of character for him. In any other circumstances, he'd have pointed how she had jumped into the fray, and defended herself quite skillfully. Hell, he even owed her thanks for saving Gawain. But this evening, his patience had dimmed to nothing, and he would NOT be sending a woman north of the wall.

— "My friends might be beyond the fort, please."

— "Then find them yourself. I won't be responsible for one more death."

Having said his part, Arthur turned around and braced his arms on the railing. He would hear no more of it. A sigh rose from her lips before her smooth voice echoed in the empty stalls once more.

— "All right. All right. Get prepared to meet me on the road, whether you allow it or not. My life being mine to command, I will use my free will to do what I must."

Her soft words struck a chord in him, and he turned his head slightly.

— "Whatever can you mean?"

— "You owe nothing to me, certainly not your protection. But your knights, you owe them big time, safety and freedom. I'm here to watch over them to the best of my abilities in the direst of times. Therefore, if you don't allow me to accompany you, I will find a way to do so."

This time, the commander turned fully, his eyes roaming her earnest features. Long reddish hair falling over her slender frame, she looked like a noble lady eager to get married, not a fiery fighter. Well, except for the men's garments. Yet, there was no anger, no despair, only fierce determination in her posture. She meant it, every word, and it baffled him how she could possibly make a difference. But the truth was that she already had.

— "Why?"

His plea was no more than a whisper, and Frances took a few tentative steps forward, her hand landing on his arm.

— "Your Gods had delegated mine to help you and your knights."

His sharp intake of breath was all it took for her to retreat.

— "You are insane."

A sly smile graced her lips.

— "Been there, heard that already, but no. Not in the sense you think anyway. Talk to your scout. Ask him of my coming. Ask him of the Woads' reluctance to attack me. Listen to reason, Arthur, and allow me to complete my bidding."

What a strange way to view things. He's seen many of his knights fall under his command, and no matter how appealing the idea of her protecting them, he couldn't fathom seeing the young woman die either. Because of him.

— "There is no reason in putting you in harm's way," he countered stiffly.

Her huff of annoyance echoed around the stall with fierce anger.

— "Damn it, Arthur! You're as stubborn as your scout!"

This time, Arthur was stunned speechless. So, she'd had an unpleasant conversation with Tristan … well, it would not be the last as he'd find his man soon enough. The whole idea of an emissary sent by Gods was preposterous. It took him a while to wrap his head around the concept.

— "Are you sure?"

His questions made her pause, and she eyed him wearily.

— "About what?"

— "Are you sure that God answered my plea?"

The woman nodded, her fiery hair dancing about her face. Arthur sighed, he'd thought her very young at first, and was shocked to discover that it was not so. She shrugged then, turning to embrace the stables with her eyes.

— "Well. I wouldn't be here if not. This is my purpose. Whether it is your God's doing or mine, I cannot tell. They're probably all on the same boat I reckon"

Half of her speech didn't make sense. She had some wit, and sometimes twisted the words in an unsettling way, referencing to things he knew, things he didn't, and things even the wisest didn't know about. Her knowledge was eclectic and puzzling at the same time. And then it hit him, the reason why it bothered him so.

— "You lied about your friends."

— "Sort of. I wasn't so sure about my purpose when I first met you. Now I am. I'm here for your protection, and your knights. You are the friends I mentioned."

Her admission made him pause. Most liars never relented on their cover stories, but there she was, a genuine look on her pretty face, telling him she was sent by her Gods to protect his knights.

— "What about your betrothed?"

Her face fell, pure, raw pain radiating from her eyes as her body flinched. It was a low blow, one he wasn't even aware he had dealt. At once, Arthur felt like gathering her into his arms; given the heated discussion they'd just been through, it quite disturbed him. Mayhap his own pain was still too close to his heart after all, for he only wanted to appease hers. Matters of love could destroy the strongest of men … and women if he could judge it by her reaction.

— "Legolas … cannot be here. He is lost to me, out of reach."

Strange words, that said nothing and everything at the same time. It spoke of a lover's tale gone wrong, of affection gained and lost. One he would not pry upon. At last, Arthur nodded his acceptance, sending a silent prayer to God that believing Frances' tale was the right path to take. Faith.

— "All right. Meet us at dawn, fully garbed. And you answer to me now, don't make me regret this."

The young woman relented to his wishes, and bowed before leaving. If he led her to battle, then she was his to command. As the young woman's silhouette disappeared in the street, Arthur reflected on the craziness of it all. Only a fool could believe such a tale, or a desperate man. Well. He'd be a fool a hundred times over if it saved any of his knight.

_The morning after…_

Lady Hawk's dark feathers blended once more with Tristan's wild strands as he sped away from the company. Her head cocked aside, Frances watched the knight as his horse took him on yet another scouting trip.

— "Careful, don't lean too far away lest you fall."

Arthur's deep voice held no chastisement as he warned her to keep her centre of gravity stable. They'd met at dawn, the knights quite baffled at her presence, and even more when Arthur asked her if she could ride on her own. Given her level of proficiency, the commander had eventually chosen another solution, and offered to take her. Surprised by this olive branch, Frances only had the time to share a knowing look with Tristan before she mounted. Arthur's commanding presence was strangely soothing, not unlike Aragorn had been, yet more tense. She couldn't blame him; Aragorn, for one, had grown with loving foster father and brothers, and been raised in the wisdom of elves. Rivendell had a way to soothe one's mind, and set a light in anyone's memories to revive in the darkest of moments. A far cry from the condition Arthur and his knights had lived in the latest fifteen years. And still, his eyes were gentle and caring. A king in the making, for sure. "Another one," she almost snorted to herself before her mind sobered; wandering on the mission ahead.

— "It might be a little stupid, but would you care explaining why this Roman family has settled north of Hadrian's wall?" she eventually asked.

— "I can only second the lady's thoughts," muttered Lancelot by her side.

Arthur didn't let his first knight's anger deter him as he responded evenly.

— "The Roman empire used to extend until Antonine's wall, which is now Woad territory. Some land was granted to Roman families in the past, and even if most have evacuated, some villages remain."

— "Aren't they called Picts, those people of the north?"

It was Arthur who answered, a little irked by this seemingly innocent remark.

— "This is what they call themselves, yes. But to us, they are woads, from the plant they crush into a blue dye to paint their bodies"

Frances' nose crunched involuntarily.

— "Oh, I remember. That's the stuff that smells so bad?"

Lancelot gave her a teasing look, his dark locks dancing in the wind.

— "Yeah. I wouldn't expect you to appreciate the delicate smell of our enemies."

— "Well, I'd feel slighted if I was named after a horrid scenting plant."

This time, the first knight's gaze turned deadly serious, giving Frances a glare. Stupid logical mind! Had she just shunned them for insulting their lifelong enemies? His answer, though, seemed to be directed at their commander.

— "I think they are more pissed that Rome occupies their lands."

Frances nodded, deep in thought. How could Roman people be so blind, so proud to not understand the danger that loomed? Were they so attached to the land that they refused to desert their homes? She'd understand it for natives, but in the case of a misplaced Roman family, it didn't make much sense to her. Unless they were of the prideful, stupid people that considered others to be at their service, included the knights that now risked their lives to evacuate them.

— "Seem one hell of a bet to me, living that far north of the wall," she eventually said.

— "As well as impossibly cocky. Given they are Roman, it wouldn't surprise me if they stayed out of spite."

— "Lancelot…"

A warning Arthur probably gave his friend ten times a day, if not more.

— "What, Arthur? Tell me you don't agree, tell me that it's normal for a Roman family to live in Woad territory and expect us to put our lives on the line for their protection."

A tense silence followed, and Frances squeezed Arthur's waist a little tighter. His Roman armour, all metal and carved plastron, was very uncomfortable to hug. She knew his reasons for setting off with her in the saddle; to ascertain his will and smother the whispers of his knights, and Bishop Germanus in the first place. The official's eyes had lingered a tad too long on her form, making her uneasy, and she was glad Arthur had chosen to sit her behind him to shield her. Yet now, she'd be quite eager to change mount whenever possible. Galahad or Dagonet were less stiff in their riding. Poor beast.

— "I have no sway about our orders. You know that if I had, you'd be free, my friend."

The sadness of his voice swept into Frances' mind, her fiery spirit rebelling against Rome once more. Better to keep quiet, though. Arthur's opinion of Rome was settled, and she didn't want to insult him again. When Tristan returned, stating the road was clear until they penetrated the woods, Lady Hawk hopped aside to squeak at the young lady. If the scout was surprised, he didn't show it, extending his arm a little closer to humour his beast. Frances gave the bird a thorough scratch, voicing her happiness softly.

— "Hello, beautiful," she crooned gently.

Behind them, Lancelot gave a mutter about "loony bird-speaking people" that she absolutely ignored. After a while, the animal hopped back to Tristan's shoulder, sending a little parting cry to Frances who smiled fully.

— "Thank you, Lady Hawk. You honour me with your trust."

And she meant every word of it, amazed that such a solitary soul had bestowed her attention upon her. She suspected the hawk to feel her intentions; another person looking out for his master was better than nothing. Such was the amazing intelligence of animals. But the bird was not the only one her words were directed at. The scout's gaze bore holes into her, had he caught the double meaning of her grateful plea? Was trust too far-fetched that she could gain it? Frances cocked her head aside, a movement very bird like, her gaze passing from Lady Hawk to Tristan. How could eyes look so indifferent and so intense at the same time? In front of her, Arthur slightly relaxed in the saddle, his armour still stiff, but his shoulders less tense. He probably wasn't fond of having the formidable bird at his back, and thought her current position – on Tristan's shoulder - far more agreeable now.

Conversation struck as they climbed a wide rocky path, Lancelot keeping to the right, and Tristan on the left, his silent nods and looks good enough for the two men who knew him. There were many interrogations, cultural references and geography exchanged. Arthur, it seemed, was trying to pry into her past and assess the extent of her knowledge. Frances did not disappoint: she was a badass in geography and could read a land like no other thanks to her geological background. She couldn't help it: she had a strong sense of orientation and could map any road after roaming it once. Her inner sense always knew where north and south were, be it from the position of the sun or just her intuition. As she scouted with the mischievous twins of Elrond on Arda, she's found that her sense of direction was not impaired at night. A very masculine trait !

Her knowledge of the people of Europe in the 5th century, though, was mushy at best. And this, even after passing the extremely competitive exams – where general knowledge was revered –that got her a spot on one of the best engineering French school. Phew. There were no English, no French and no Germans at the time. Briton was divided between Celts in the south and Picts in the north, the Scots didn't live in Scotland – yet! – but in eastern Ireland. As for Italy and Spain … well, she knew the Romans to be in Italy, some Vikings to hold Sicily – thanks to vacations she'd spent there - and that there probably was an Arabic incursion in most of southern Spain – vacation again. Other than that, their respective languages and cultures were a big question mark to her.

Fortunately, Lancelot started speaking of the Sarmatian plains, and the shamans that watched over them. And despite the angry gleam hidden in Tristan's eyes, Frances drank his stories like a child would listen to a tale-teller. The young woman observed Lancelot as his stance relaxed, his dark irises shining, for once, with a genuine light. There was hurt as well, homesickness so deeply rooted that it was painful to watch, but also wistfulness in his gaze. Like a dream, that all would be well for the people left behind, that no harm had befallen their respective families despite the theft of their firstborn. Frances's heart constricted painfully as she imagined the crushing blow of having your sons ripped away. No longer did she consider Lancelot as an annoying flirt for she saw, as he left the mask behind, the young boy he'd been when taken so brutally from his land.

— "How old were you when they…?"

— "Too young"

Tristan's voice shocked Arthur, but the commander would not show it for the world. The scout scarcely participated in a conversation unless directly addressed. He never took well to strangers either, and even less answered personal questions. The young lady's words came back to his mind –talk to your scout. Ask him of my coming. Ask him of the Woads' reluctance to attack me – and he resolved to ask Tristan before the end of the day. For now though, Arthur could only cringe as Lancelot answered truthfully. And it hurt him more than he would ever admit.

— "I was ten. Galahad, only seven, and Gawain eleven. Bors was the eldest, at eighteen, Dagonet not much younger. The others … well, there's no point. They're dead now."

Silence met this statement. A thick, heavy, and loaded silence. By his side, Tristan seemed caught in a contest of stares of sort, for his eyes didn't move from the young lady riding behind him. And then, his hawk took flight, the shuffle of her wings nearly covering Tristan's answer. But not entirely.

— "Sixteen. I was sixteen, soon to be betrothed, and a man already."

And then the scout spurred his horse into gallop to follow his hawk and disappeared on the path without turning back to watch their slack jaws. A man already … the reason that his face had been tattooed?

— "Did you know?" came Lancelot's voice beside him.

One word. Final, and hopeless escaped Artur's lips as the weight became unbearable.

— "No"

A strangled laugh shook Lancelot's chest.

— "Seems someone has more luck prying answers from the scout that we had in the past fifteen years."

Frances bristled under the first knight's stare, clearly uneasy in the saddle. The commander sighed; she was not the only one, and a little discomfort was hardly repayment for the hardship she brought upon him. Her unsettling presence opened his eyes and hears in a manner he loathed. As if he'd never cared to listen before, and was now starting to dive into another world. A world different from his own, painted with brighter colours, soaked red by the harshness of it. Perhaps she was right, perhaps his God had answered his prayers, albeit in a way he wasn't expecting it to. And for a moment, he'd loved to hate her for it. The knowledge that reached his conscience with her innocent questions, the things she pried out of his knights was unbearable. And her opinion on Rome, her mention of how Commodus killed his best general turned in circles in his mind. Was Rome so far gone from what he knew? From Pelagius's teachings? No, he couldn't hate the messenger, especially a woman. And somehow, he had an inkling that Tristan wouldn't allow him to.

Arthur called for a halt. It was time for the young lady to change mount, and for him to gather his thoughts away from her unsettling influence.


	9. Gawain - Reviewed

It was Gawain's turn to babysit the young redhead, and he might have enjoyed it had they not been neck deep in one of the Woad-infested forest. Her presence behind him wasn't too bothersome, she held herself rather well on horseback, and tried to match the pace of his hips. Their horses carved a path into bushes that were way too lively for the season, but this blasted island never really cared for seasons after all. Of perhaps Merlin's magic willed those horrible plants to grow just to annoy the hell out of riders. Who knew?

Tristan was riding at the front with Arthur, but even the great scout – partial shaman, he talked to beasts after all – couldn't keep his horse from fidgeting. Thunder rumbled across the hills, the light had diminished so much that it felt like dusk, and the knights were nervous. The wind was picking up now, slightly warmer than usual, the promise of a thunderstorm hot on his trails. Yet, no enemy showed up on their path. As if on cue, Tristan's characteristic accent echoed among their ranks.

— "Woads, they are tracking us."

— "Where?" Arthur asked.

— "Everywhere"

Gawain felt the young lady tense behind him; her hand hovering above the bow stowed on the left side of his horse. His was already unfastened, awaiting for a good occasion to be used. What a pity that this lovely lady should die with them all on this blasted soil. For she was quite lovely, and cheeky as hell. Closer to Sarmatian ladies, so unlike those submissive Romans' wives. If he survived it all, he would be glad to find such a woman upon his return. For the moment, though, he doubted it. But still they progressed, Tristan's head lifted to the skies; he probably spotted the Woads even with the dim light. On Gawain's left, Galahad stayed close. It appeased him; should they die, they would have least do it together. Bond in life, linked in death, like blood brothers.

The wind made his hair fly, and several times, he felt Frances fidget behind him to slap it out of her face. The blond knight resisted the urge to chuckle to release the tension. Perhaps it would be best for her to ride with Dagonet when the wind was too strong; his hair wouldn't get in the way. The gentle giant, close on his heels, suddenly whispered.

— "Inish, devil ghosts"

Gawain nodded. They might as well be ghosts for all he cared, perhaps it was the reason why they didn't feel the cold so acutely, always parading half-naked in this forsaken land. But he knew as well how to make them bleed. No, not ghosts. They were definitely human. Humans that had taken the lives of fifteen men, cousins, brothers from his tribe and his people until there were only six of them left. And maybe none, before dusk fell upon the land.

But it was not to be. Little by little, hour after hour, they progressed into the woods led by Tristan's infallible sense of direction. Never had the scout faltered when it came to pick up a route, and they depended on him more than they should. Sometimes, his dark eyes left the treetops to concentrate on the woman riding behind him. Frances then turned to meet his gaze head on. Suspicion perhaps? Or interest? Gawain didn't know; he had never been good at reading the scout's mask. But contrary to Galahad, he didn't resent him for it. Tristan was a lonely, private man. The best swordsman of their group, as well as the best archer. Not the best rider, though, this title fell upon himself; a feat he was rather proud of. And, needless to say, that Tristan's skill with daggers sometimes rubbed him the wrong way. But he didn't judge him for it. Tristan had perfected the art of killing like a musician the art of playing and the Romans the art of conquering. It kept them alive; it was enough for Gawain to be thankful.

Here and there the horses fidgeted. Rain poured upon them, gathering in the tree tops before fat drops splashed their hair. For a while, there was only dampness and miserable puddles on the ground. Until the downpour thankfully stopped. The wind picked up, flapping at their heads as it changed direction. As it turned to the north, its icy gusts elicited a shiver from the young woman behind him. She had not said a word during this whole ordeal, but God knows her thighs must be cramped. Unless she was used to spending days in the saddle. Yet, she followed the mood like a seal followed the waves. If they remained silent, so did she. If hands flew to their weapons, she drew her sword. And when his horse relaxed slightly under their combined weight, her hips danced alongside his easily.

Frances was no burden, and he was the first surprised by it. But again, she had shown as much on her way to the wall five days prior. Once more, he wondered who she was. Young, but not so young. Betrothed to a man they knew nothing about, and roaming the land on her own to find him. Loyal, for sure, for she undertook this suicide mission for his sake, or so he thought. How she had convinced Arthur to let her tag along … he would have paid a few silver coins to be a mouse and witness this discussion. He had no doubt the lady could be stubborn, but his commander … well. Arthur was unmovable in his rightfulness. A true Roman – ordering people around – or was it his Briton side? A rock, as thick as the heavy boulders of this blasted country.

Still, the famous Artorius Castus had relented, allowing the peculiar woman to continue looking for her betrothed north of the wall, bestowing protection. Gawain found himself curious to know what kind of man he could be, the one that had stolen Frances' heart so mercilessly. He couldn't possibly imagine it was no man, nor that her reasons for coming were entirely different.

Gawain sighed, fed up with the dampness that plastered his long hair to his face. But when the inexistent sun descended behind the mountains, he couldn't care less. The promise of a break lifted his spirits enough for him to forget about the strange presence of the fiery woman. And none of them were dead … yet. Perhaps Bors was right, perhaps she would bring them luck.


	10. The perfect man - Reviewed

The wind howled in the tree tops, its scent carrying the promise of snow as surely as the sun would rise in the morning. Huddled around a hidden hearth, the knights partook a stew fixed by Dagonet, the wheat grains dancing with bannock morsels. It was only by the grace of Tristan's skills that meat joined their dinner, for the land was asleep this far north. As they set up camp, Frances felt slightly useless. Not out of ignorance, for she was used to sleeping in the wilds after her little adventure with the fellowship of the ring. Yet, the company worked as a tight group, each of them with their task, all individuals doing their own chores that intertwined into a collective effort. A strange ballet to watch, fascinating, but that left Frances with a sour taste of worthlessness. After getting some relatively dry wood in the surroundings to supply the fire, she collected pine needles in a corner. It would insulate her from the frozen ground where she would lie. Then she unpacked a woollen blanket – lent by Jols, the Valar bless him – from Galahad's horse. After checking that her future bedding was free of ants and other crawling beasties – as if they could survive such coldness !– Frances was left to take a seat, facing the rise of the hill.

None of the knights were unsettled by Arthur's subtle demand to speak to his scout. Frances's blood drained from her face, though, for she had an inkling about what the subject might be. Her sorry ass. As well as her impossible arrival in a great flash of blue light, and the subsequent notion that, witch or fairy, the Woads seemed to steer clear from her. The lack of attack this afternoon could only confirm their suspicion that she worked in league with their enemies. If Tristan and Arthur came to this conclusion, they would be hell to pay. Would Arthur execute her without trial? Or leave the decision to his knights? Would he interrogate her? Leave her behind, tied to a tree? Here, in the middle of nowhere, she didn't think she could survive on her own. Without Aragorn or Legolas to look after her, she knew the cold and barrenness of the land would kill her for sure. The knights conversed lightly, grumbling about the weather, the Bishop and their blasted last mission. Despite the eminence's secretary being there, who kept mostly to himself, the knights did not have qualms about voicing their contempt. She couldn't blame them; they had been robbed of their freedom and sent to death. Curiously, though, she wondered why secretary Horntorn had accepted to follow them in the pits of hell. He probably had no choice in the matter; poor guy.

Frances had to refrain from staring at the two lonely forms lingering in the shadows, close enough to distinguish their cloaks billowing in the wind, but far enough to prevent her from hearing them. She would have given anything to be privy to their conversation and could only hope that Arthur's heart was not too heavy … yet. Or that his ideals would stand true. For she didn't think Tristan would advocate her case. The scout looked after his own, and if he believed her an enemy, he would cut her down where she stood without an ounce of remorse. And she respected him for it as much as she feared him.

Then someone plopped down beside her, steering her thoughts from the secret conversation that kept her on edge.

— "Do not worry, Frances. The Woads don't want us dead, and Tristan will find the best way out of those woods."

Frances smiled at Gawain, touched by his attempt at lifting her mood. Little could he know the true reason of her fears. She couldn't possibly tell him that she was afraid of his commander, right ? But Bors couldn't care less as he addressed her a grin.

— "Yeah. You, lass, brought us luck. So let's celebrate, right?"

Frances smiled back, amused at his antics. But somewhere in the shadows, she distinguished a set of amber eyes boring holes into her skull. She could nearly hear the scout's thoughts from here, scoffing at the sheer naiveté of his older brother. Luck had nothing to do with this. Somehow, Merlin had plans for Arthur … or for her. Galahad's grumbling, though, shook her out of her musings as he sat on a log.

— "Oh, I can't wait to leave this island. If it's not raining, it's snowing. If it's not snowing, it's foggy."

— "And that's the summer!", interjected Lancelot with a smirk.

This time, Frances smiled. Given her birth place, she had lived through many summers where the temperature rose over 38 degrees Celsius. Britain's weather was a common joke in Lyon. For her city was no laughing matter; in 2003, a massive heat wave had decimated many of the elderly; the temperature had barely gone below 30 degrees at night, and it stayed over 40 for at least a month during the day. She didn't remember it with great fondness as she had been stuck in the city at the time... and brooding over her fresh separation with Legolas. Hell, she would have given anything to be there, by the fire, in this blasted country, freezing her arse off than wallowing in misery in Lugdunum's oven.

— "True, there are not many places where it rains more than here," she scoffed.

Frances hated the rain, it always impaired her great outings in the forest as a kid, and drowned her fire at the hut they'd built with her little neighbour. A familiar smooth voice rose behind her and she nearly jumped.

— "The rain is good. Washes all the blood away"

Not even a full sentence, as was the scout's wont. Tristan's comment was drowned by Dagonet's sarcastic remark that it didn't help the smell, but Frances felt caught like a deer in headlights. For his intense gaze rested upon her, unreadable. She struggled not to fidget, wondering if his words were a threat – your blood could be washed way with a shower – a question – are you here to spill our blood? – or had even remotely anything to do with her arrival. Then Tristan settled on the other side of the fire, directly in her line of sight. Frances sighed; trust was hard gained. She chanced a quick glance to Arthur who only nodded tersely. No interrogation, no shouting and no incrimination. Better than expected. Inwardly, she deflated. But her features didn't change an inch, the mask firmly in place.

Beside her, Gawain seemed oblivious to the little display – or he chose to ignore it. How the knight managed to keep his mood so even, so cheerful was a mystery to her, but it was refreshing. His voice was deep and calming, like a ripple across the waters of a summer lake.

— "Hey, Bors, do you intend to take Vanora and all your little bastards back home?"

Home to Sarmatia. Eleven children, travelling across three thousand kilometres. That was the challenge of the year. Bors must have reached the same conclusion for shook his head.

— "Oh, I'm trying to avoid that decision…"

Then he sent a pointed look to his commander.

— " … by getting killed. Dagonet, she wants to get married and give the children names."

— "Women!", came Tristan's voice, his eyes firmly planted into her own.

And for a moment, nothing existed else than the amber of his gaze pinning her into place before he released her, turning to Bors.

— "The children already have names, don't they?"

His comment reassured her somehow, as if not naming one's children seemed preposterous to him. For it was crazy to think that…

— "Just Gilly. It was too much trouble, so we gave the rest of them numbers."

Bors' answer shocked her enough to root her to the log she was sitting on. Her gaze flew to the scout once more, wondering what he thought of his brother's answer. But Tristan wouldn't look her way, and she inhaled sharply to ease the weight that settled upon her chest. No names… children with no names. Damn… Lancelot, for one, seemed unfazed as he smirked.

— "That's interesting. And I thought you couldn't count."

Beside Frances, Gawain silently laughed as he tried to share an amused glance with her. But she couldn't show mirth as the reality of the fifth century hit her like a truck at full speed. A time where children had no name, and people couldn't count. Or read, or write for that matter. Where you could kill your neighbour, or be killed in a jiffy. Die of the simplest of wounds, and see your children whither and waste away on a bad winter. Perhaps, in a few months from now, the baby she had held in her arms would be buried under the unforgiving earth of Britain.

— "You know," Bors continued in a lower voice. "I never thought I'd get back home alive. Now I've got the chance, I… I don't want to leave my children."

— "You'd miss 'em too much," said Gawain.

The bald knight nodded over the fire, his eyes a tad too misty to be caused by the wind. It was heartwarming, to see such a giant, the ruthless warrior, so taken with his children. Vanora must be the hell of a woman to put up with him and such a brood.

— "I'll take them with me. I like the little bastards. They mean something to me…"

In 2006, hearing such words would have sent feminists in a fit. Here, and there, it just meant that Bors had a heart of gold. How far had the world evolved in fifteen hundred years. Frances was numb, lost in the recesses of her mind.

— " … especially number three. He's a good fighter."

Lancelot couldn't resist rubbing salt in the wound.

— "That's because he's mine."

His goading woke Frances from her depressed thoughts and she bent over Gawain to slap the dark knight's arm.

— "Lancelot!" she hissed, letting the anger pull her out of her sad musings.

Shocked by her gall, Lancelot sent her a glare that she returned tenfold. At the tavern already, she had seen how he taunted Bors by trying to drag Vanora into his lap. Funny, how the tall brute of a knight was gullible, for the redhead only had eyes for him. Did Bors have an inferiority complex regarding Lancelot's good looks? Didn't he see, that cad of a knight, that he undermined Bors' confidence? Psychology 101? But it was no matter, as even as they glared at each other, Bors stood up dejectedly.

— "I'm going for a piss"

— "Me too," said Gawain.

Both knights disappeared in the woods. Abashed, Arthur chanced a glance at the young woman.

— "Please excuse our crude ways, Lady Frances."

Somehow, the upgrade in standing felt off in the misty woods. Frances blinked, sending one last chastising glance to Lancelot before addressing the commander.

— "Bah, it is no matter. I, too, need to piss sometimes."

A round of subdued laughter greeted her words, and she thought that even Tristan's lips quirked beneath the mane of unruly hair. Arthur caught her meaning in everything left unsaid; she was no maiden to protect and her mind could handle his men without flinching. There was no need to upset himself over the trivialities of soldiers, and their crude humour. If only he knew the horrors they said in school, the one-night stands and other party endings, completely drunk, that her schoolmates partook in. Phew. Despite it all, she felt better surrounded by Samartian knights than with her so-called comrades. Except for the Picts infested woods and impending death threat.

Gawain's return was more eventful than Bors'. The tearing of fabric, followed by colourful swear words in his native language, caused her eyebrows to rise.

— "Stupid trees, standing in my way! Another tunic to mend," came his unnerved outburst.

— "Shhh, Gawain," chastised Bors. "The Woads will have our hides if they find us."

Frances lifted her eyes across the embers, meeting the scout's gaze. Her spine tingled, and she was quite sure that said Woads had known the moment they set up camp. But they had yet to show. Tristan's irises came alight with the glow of the fire, their light brown nearly golden in the night, the eyes of a predator on the hunt. She realised then how the others relied on him, for as long as he said nothing, they acted as if all was well. Such responsibility, it must be crushing … and if she guessed right, he probably didn't tell them half of what he saw – except to Arthur.

Bah, there was nothing she could do to settle her nerves. On a whim, she offered to mend Gawain's shirt. The repetitive action, at least, could soothe her mind.

— "I always have my sewing kit with me" she said as the knight hesitated, his shirt bundled up in his hands.

— "A typical woman," snorted Lancelot.

— "I also carry things to sew you back together…"

Dagonet's voice, so scarcely heard, caused Frances to raise an eyebrow. Was he defending her from the offence of being called a woman? His intervention, though, caused his fellow brothers to still. Gentle and fearsome at the same time, Dagonet oozed those fatherly vibes that were unconsciously picked up by the others like a bunch of chastised children. The young woman smiled at the giant in the dim light before turning to Gawain. The knight gave an enormous yawn, his mind made up as he handed her the shirt.

— "Who cares, I am grateful for your offer, because the gods know I hate it!"

Frances accepted the bundle of cloth with a smile.

— "Well, can't be good at everything, right?"

There was no flattery in her words; so far, she had been impressed by the knights' skills. Those men fought, mastered their horses, cared for them, knew the land and survived on their own in any place. And despite her barging into their lives, Gawain had been a fairly decent fellow. The blond knight grinned at her, amusement twinkling in his blue eyes as he cocked his head aside.

— "Well, Tristan can sew. He's good at everything. Killing, throwing daggers, horseriding, taming animals…"

The scout's eyebrows rose under his shaggy mane, the look of surprise barely perceptible on his usually impassive face. On the other side of the fire, Galahad scoffed, disbelief written on his features. They had never quite seen eye to eye, and he couldn't understand why his brothers didn't shy away from his bloodlust.

— "The best bowman," added Bors.

Lancelot nodded.

— "Our best swordsman … and scout of course"

Arthur, amused, watched at the band of brothers paid their tribute to the scout. Something he had, until now, never witnessed. The young woman's eyes sparkled in the fire's light, and she raised an eyebrow challengingly, turning to Tristan.

— "How about cooking?"

Would he grace her with an answer? The commander knew how his scout hated to be in the spotlight. But Frances seemed to have some sort of understanding with Tristan, for after a while, he eventually grunted a stern reply.

— "Aye"

It wasn't much, just enough to convey that he, indeed, could cook decently. For a man prone to spend days at a time in the wild on his own, nothing preposterous to that. Frances was enjoying the game far too much as she fired questions away.

— "Singing?"

— "He can," Gawain deadpanned.

Yes, of course she'd heard his voice in the Sarmatian song several days ago. She needed something even more preposterous. Wracking her brain, she found another idea.

— "Dancing?"

— "You'd be surprised. The Gods knew I was"

Galahad's comment surprised them all, including the key player of this conversation. A humming sound echoed in the lady's chest as she searched for other subjects to broach. A thin smile lifted the corner of his lips, remembering his fighting style. His footwork on the battlefield was like a dance…

— "Mmm, I sense there's a story there that I might ask someday. So, what else?"

— "There's something he might be good at…"

Lancelot wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Frances suddenly flushed.

— "Damn it Lancelot, pull your mind out of the gutter. Are you actually trying to marry him off or what?"

Her comment called forth a round of subdued laughter – Woads might be nearby after all – and somewhere behind the dark fringe of unruly hair, she wondered if Tristan's colour had not slightly reddened as well. How was she going to manoeuvre out of this corner, especially since an annoying French song now danced in the back of her mind – Si tu veux m'essayer … if you want to try me out – Ugh! But Lancelot was having way too much fun to relent, and pressed his advantage as he presented the now glaring scout with his hand.

— "Aah, but don't be fooled by the shaggy exterior. Tristan probably has plenty of hidden qualities."

Frances frowned at the bite coated in sugar; somehow, it didn't feel so much like a compliment coming from the dark knight. Her eyes roamed about the scout's braids partially hiding his smouldering amber eyes, long leather vest, medieval shirt and sturdy boots. Her scrutiny called forth the image of Aragorn, drenched with grime and sweat in the wilds the first time they had met. A fond smile spread upon her lips, remembering how despicable the ranger's appearance had been. Yet his noble lineage always showed in his every action, Aragorn was a man she looked up to. There, she had found a way out as she grinned at Lancelot.

— "Ah, I once met a King who looked and smelt even worse than you lot reunited."

— "Not possible, Bors is there…" Galahad interjected.

And just like that, they all seemed to forget that she had met a ranger King, or compared royalty to Tristan. But she didn't, for the remembrance of orc blood upon Aragorn's clothes could never be forgotten.

The scout squinted his eyes, but remained impassive. As if this whole conversation didn't concern him one bit. And when he suddenly stood, like a feline about to jump upon its prey, a hush fell in the forest.

— "Aye. Now leave me be. Get some rest, I'll take first watch."

Arthur nodded, standing as well.

— "Yes, let us rest. We depart at first light"

A useless order, for Tristan's words were enough to send his brothers to their bedrolls, all teasing forgotten. Incredible, how that man could shift the mood. Frances retrieved her bag and sat closer to the fire as the knights made ready. A bittersweet souvenir assailed her as she fished her sewing kit; the last time she'd mended another's shirt on the road had been for Boromir. She remembered the proud man's misogyny as he stated that "women should know how to sew", and how she had grumbled under her breath as her delicate fingers worked on the torn fabric. They'd been on the road to Mordor then; he never reached it. The road to his death. Images of his pale face, begging forgiveness, flashed before her eyes and she closed them tight. Another friend she'd left behind, for in time, they had reached an understanding. The proud Captain of Gondor and the Keeper of Time had eventually mended the torn bond between them as he warmed up to Aragorn in Lothlorien... Just before the battle of Amon Hen, just before his death by Orc's poisoned arrows. It was lucky Legolas had not been killed that day; at least, there was still a chance for them to meet. Somewhere, deep within her heart, dwelt the thread of light that linked her to the elf.

Night settled, snores echoed in the silence, the noises of the forest dampened by winter. Frances sat on the blanket near the fire, her needle swiftly repairing Gawain's poor linen tunic. The cloth was rough against her fingers, a far cry from the soft cotton of her own, but more solid. And it smelled of sweat; fortunately, the cold dampened it a little. Lost in her reminiscence of battles and death, Frances mended the fabric with small stitches. Tristan had taken first watch, unsettled by the stillness of the woods. Something was off, and not yet threatening so that Arthur should be awakened. His fellow brothers would need all the sleep they could get. Eyeing the young lady across the embers, the scout eventually stood, his movement as silent as death. His previous discussion with Arthur had not been conclusive. The man, with his ideals and values, wanted to give the lady a chance. Tristan didn't argue against it; he had promised not to stand in her way. And even Arthur's religion didn't believe for fairies or witches, he had not denied the scout's account of her arrival. From there, they could only watch, and make sure she posed no threat to the knights.

The Woads' reluctance to fight her, though, still annoyed him. And the lack of attack in the woods tended to confirm that she worked with them. If such was the case … he would end her life without mercy. For the moment, though, her presence was protection. And a refreshing addition to their sorry group, for her conversation alone had called forth confessions from his fellow knights. Hearing their praise, albeit reluctant from Galahad and Lancelot, had put balms on wounds he didn't even know he possessed. For he was a loner, closed off from the world to prevent further hurt. And antagonising his fellow brothers was just a way to protect himself from losing them, or bearing the brunt of their sarcasm. Learning that they admired him gave him a sense of belonging.

And she … she had looked at him with kindness… fondness even as she compared him to this King. As if she could see the man behind the mask without fleeing in disgust. The private smile that followed Lancelot's preposterous comment – not that the wenches complained about his performance, mind you – had stirred something in his heart. Somewhere existed a woman – with brains, and not running after coins – that could appreciate what he was … who he was, without judging. It was oddly reassuring, even if said woman was a little fairy bond to another man.

Tristan sighed. Too much thinking for a desperate situation. And none of this would help him make heads or tails of the predicament they were currently in. Frances didn't flinch when he crouched a few inches from her, only acknowledging his presence with a nod. There, he could embrace the whole slope of forest without having to move, a position she'd chosen by instinct. It only confirmed that she was used to travelling in enemy territory.

— "They know we're here," she eventually whispered.

Tristan nearly started, once more unsettled by the awareness of the young woman. Had she been trained as a hunter? A tracker perhaps?

— "How do you know?" he whispered.

The young woman shuddered.

— "The wind whirls as it is wont to do when snow is coming. I can smell the woad plant."

So this is how she spotted them. Sneaky woman.

— "You've got an acute sense of smell."

— "Yeah. Unfortunately for me"

The young woman scrunched her nose comically, eliciting a low chuckle from the scout. If her delicate nose could pick the faint smell of woad paint in the icy wind, he had no doubt she suffered greatly from the proximity of unwashed men and horses alike. This probably explained why she had assembled her pine blanket further away from them.

— "I wonder why they do not attack," she stated, visibly puzzled.

If she was playing him, then her game was incredibly smooth, for nothing betrayed her duplicity. And her eyes, this warm chocolate hue that turned gold in the light of the fire, held no other feeling but genuine concern. There were so wide, so incredibly inviting that Tristan lost himself in their contemplation. Barely a moment, where the weight of the world lifted slightly before it came crashing down upon his shoulders again.

— "They are not so close now."

The young woman nodded, her features concentrated on the deep gash that Gawain had clumsily made on his tunic. Her sewing was neat, the stitches small and even, some additional ones reinforcing the cloth. He marvelled that she didn't ask why; she'd probably gathered that he didn't know … or wouldn't tell her. Her a calm demeanour as she knew them to be surrounded intrigued him; they were, after all, at the mercy of the locals. Mayhap she'd understood something he didn't. Mayhap she'd been right, and the Woads kept away from her. In this case, her very presence was a talisman to the knights. Mayhap she'd been in worse situations before, just like them. Mayhap … she was a spy for the Woads.

— "Why do they keep away from you?" he suddenly growled.

Frances' gaze turned back to him, surprised by the renewed threat in his low voice. The flames danced in fire of her hair, the surreal halo of light bringing out her lovely cheekbones.

— "I have no idea," she whispered genuinely. "But I certainly hope it remains so."

Tristan gave her his most intimidating stare, and she flinched a little. Good, after that episode in the woods where he had nearly crushed her windpipe, he'd wondered how human she was. No one could sustain his glare without showing signs of distress.

— "I swear to you Tristan, in the name of the Gods I serve. I am no Woad, and am at loss as much as you are."

— "Your Gods are nothing to me."

She stared back at him, her indignation radiating off her slender frame. Little did he know that the Valar were not Gods to her either, but it was simpler this way.

— "Then trust Lady Hawk"

Lady Hawk, a mighty nickname for his companion… one he might quite start using in private. Most of the time, animals had more sense than humans. An eternity passed until the scout was satisfied with Frances' earnest plea. Standing tall, he took a silent turn behind the camp, his eyes scanning the surroundings and finding no soul alive. Yet, his gaze often returned to the fire where the fairy mended a shirt in a show of domesticity that sent a pang to his heart. He'd never have that, a wife sewing his shift in front of dying embers, the comfort of a feather bed with a soft curvaceous body awaiting him, a pair of fine eyes watching him with admiration rather than contempt. Little feet pattering on the ground, unconditional love in their eyes. Would his brothers survive long enough to enjoy a blissful marriage? How many of them, if any?

At last satisfied with the stillness of the forest, Tristan settled back beside the little fairy. Oddly enough, her presence didn't disturb him, nor prevented him from keeping alert. His brothers were snoring away, oblivious to the danger lurking ahead. When she spoke, the scout was unsure whether she was addressing him.

— "It soothes me to sew by hand."

— "By hand?"

His accented voice nearly got lost in the gentle cracking of the embers; it was so quiet. But she answered anyway.

— "At home, I have a machine. One thread below, one thread above, it makes a stronger seam, it is more efficient. Faster. But my mind settles when I do it by hand."

A machine; he'd never heard of such a thing. Tristan shrugged the idea off; he wasn't one to get interested in womanly arts. The sleeves of his leather overcoat were roughly sewn; he'd repaired them enough to know how inelegant it was. The true question, though, was on the tip of his tongue. And even if he'd rather stay quiet, his curiosity won the struggle.

— "Where is home, Frances?"

— "Home is where the heart is, at least, that's what they say."

Her answer seemed hollow, and Gawain's shirt came to rest upon her bent knee as she turned her face to him. Her eyes shone with repressed emotion; their golden hue glazed by unshed tears. A tough battle was raging inside her mind, a battle he knew for having fought it a hundred times over. He was not sure he'd escaped victorious from it, and her quiet admission sent a pang of sadness through his heart.

— "I have no idea where home is, at the moment."

The words stumbled out unbidden.

— "Neither do I"

Home. Sarmatia, Brittany, Rome? Where was home now? Where did he belong? The young lady nodded, her eyes searching his for answers. And even though he did not say a thing, Tristan realised that she saw it all, and for once, he didn't hide. Compassion, understanding, kinship. All of this written on her face, pouring out of the depth of her warm chocolate gaze. It had been a long time since someone had looked upon him that way, without fear, disdain or disgust. And even if Tristan wasn't one to seek company, it felt good to be considered as a human being, for once. A piercing cry called him back to reality; Hawk requested his presence. The scout watched the dark sky intensely as he leapt to his feet.

— "Get some sleep," he ordered sternly.

— "I will. Once this is done."

Tristan nodded and disappeared from the camp's halo of reddened light.

— "Be safe, Tristan," she murmured.

Unbeknownst to her, the scout paused a few yards away, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips before resuming his round. Eternity had come and gone since a woman had wished him such a simple thing.


	11. A Roman Estate - Reviewed

**_Hey! I've been away for a while hence the delay to approve reviews (which I have to do when it is posted by guests). My apologies to Koba who has been super nice and rewrote it. Thank you for sharing your mind, I like it when readers highlight things that I sometimes fail to notice while I write. It gives me another lecture on my work. Thank you as well to my other reviewers, and the people who favourite! You make my day!_**

The temperature dropped dramatically this very night, and Frances shivered wildly despite the elvish cloak and the heavy blanket. Huddled on herself, she felt every bit like a tiny child lost in the freezing mountains. Contrary to most men, she didn't have much body mass to counter the icy wind. If only Legolas had been here, he'd have surrounded her with his endless warmth, and cuddled her in the safety of his arms! By morning, Frances was quite exhausted but ready to spring into action. If only courage could give a little blood flowing into her legs, she'd be grateful. Few words were exchanged; she gathered that night had been difficult to all. Nodding to the knights that caught her gaze, she watched the flurry of silent activity that awakened the camp. Tristan was nowhere in sight, probably scouting already. That man never slept. He never let his guard down as well, the toll of being the one in charge of their safety.

Breakfast consisted of dried meat, cheese and fruits, but a steaming pot of tea was heated on the embers. Frances had never been more grateful for a bowl of boiling herbs, and when Dagonet handed it to her, she graced him with such a genuine smile that he seemed taken aback. Not even the bitter taste could dampen her spirits as she let her frozen hands absorb the heat of the wooden recipient, the skin of her cheeks relishing in the steam.

Once her hands were restored to their former functionality, Frances unleashed her hair, brushed it, and braided it anew, putting pins on the side to restrict it. Many eyes roamed over the waterfall of fire as she tugged it securely, their length not unusual for a noble woman, but their colour sticking out harshly in the pale forest. There was some sort of reverence around the fire as she prepared, she dismissed it on curiosity; after all, the knights had been huddled together for fifteen years, and probably seldom made camp with a single woman. One that didn't prepare in her tent, that is. Washing could wait another day, Frances settled for passing a damp cloth over her face. Catching Gawain's eye, she retrieved his mended tunic and held it out for him.

— "There, I've done what I could to salvage your garment, and tried to reinforce the cloth here and there."

The knight bowed his head, his blue eyes checking the stitches with satisfaction. Then he surprised her as he shed his outer tunic and, bundling his shift at the base, removed it altogether. Frances blinked; Gawain grinned at her, shirtless in the freezing air. To say that his chest was any woman's dream was the understatement of the year. A few blond locks marred his muscular frame, subdued enough to be unnoticeable, and his shoulders were broad enough to have the tavern wenches sigh. But Frances remained stoic; none other than Legolas would make her blush, for even if Gawain was the epitome of a good-looking man, he didn't make her heart beat faster. Seeing no rouge to the lady's cheeks, the knight took his time, his fingers deftly pulling at the seams she'd added the night before as he feigned to test them.

— "You are a skilled seamstress", he said, face straight.

The young woman snorted. Sure, she could sew properly, but her rigour left to be desired. Never could she compete with a professional. The smile Gawain sent her, though, was mischievous. A suspicion rose into her mind as she sent him a hypocrite smile.

— "If you aim at embarassing me, you might as well parade around in your birthday suit. If you aim at impressing me, I beg you to confer to my previous comment."

Gawain blinked, then pulled the shirt over his head as hearty laughter rose from the circle of knights. Galahad openly scoffed at his brother in arms, while Lancelot smirked at the young woman.

— "So you don't blush like a maiden in front of a shirtless man ? How many men have you bedded, lady Frances ?"

— "Lancelot !"

Arthur's admonishment didn't wipe the smirk out of Lancelot's face, but it gave enough time to Frances to recover from the chock of his crude statement. Especially since the answer was… one.

— "That, sir knight, it none of your business. But my knowledge of the male anatomy has nothing to do with it. I have brothers, remember ? Plenty of them"

Bors, who was scarfing down a piece of cheese hard as rock, didn't bother to swallow before he asked:

— "I got seven boys!"

— "Well, congratulations. And it was the exact same amount. Two brothers of mine, that look so alike even if they were born ten years apart. And five boys at the neigbours. I grew up with them, so I had to hold my ground"

Lancelot chuckled once more.

— "This explains a lot", he said, his dark eyes gleaming with something unknown.

Frances frowned and scolded him.

— "Hush, you. Anyway, one of the neighbors built my first bow out of a hazelnut tree."

Galahad brightened at that, his clear greenish eyes sparkling.

— "Ow, this is great wood to work with. Supple, but strong. It is prefect to learn with"

— "And hazelnuts, mmmm", added Gawain, munching on a hard piece of dried meat. "Probably better than this dead piece of whatever"

This time, Frances laughed openly. Needless to say that she shared his opinion heartily. Dried meat for breakfast was rather disgusting but hey, beggars can't be choosers.

— "Yeah. And it is a great tree to have. When you're not at war with the squirrels… anyway. I might have nicked one of their hen's ass with it when I was young, it went away screaming bloody murder"

Galahad couldn't help but tease her; he had no idea whatsoever about her skills with a bow, and still had trouble getting past the fragile female image.

— "Then your aim was very wrong"

— "No, my arrow was plain. Just training"

Laughter rose once more around the remaining embers, and Frances could only be grateful for the easy banter. Even in a desperate situation, those men were able to see the brighter side of life. Gawain, nonplussed by her previous comment, rose to his feet. Before he walked away, he caught Frances's gaze and bowed his head.

— "I thank you heartily, for this. And for my life."

Her eyebrows crunched together in confusion.

— "I hardly think my stitching saved your life," she jested.

The blond knight sent her a puzzled look, and it was Galahad that voiced his question aloud.

— "Do you not know?"

Frances's expression turned cheeky. Either the knights were toying with her, either they would tell her what this was about. But she would not enter the game.

— "Apparently not"

Gawain took his time, folding his discarded tunic into his pack, and marching up to her. Frances had to lift her yes to meet his blue ones; even if he was not the tallest of the company, Gawain still dwarfed her with his frame. His shoulders, in particular, were twice as wide as hers.

— "One of the woads you killed in battle was going to take a swing at my back. As such, you saved my life. And for this, I thank you."

The young woman scrunched her nose, trying to recall the "battle of the Bishop", as she called it, to find out which moment she'd "saved" him. Try as she might, she couldn't remember anything in the maze of her brain; she'd been in full battle mode, and quite unable to keep an eye on the others. Eventually, she shrugged.

— "I'm sure Galahad or Tristan would have dispatched him in time."

— "I couldn't," came the youngest knights' voice. "I was too far away."

All eyes were fixed on her, and Frances felt uneasy. She was unsure about what they expected from her. Gushing? Humility? A hug? A part of her was happy that she'd been useful, another quite baffled by the feat. She'd saved a knight's life. Neat. But her reason refused to accept it; she was sure he'd come unharmed, one way or another. And thus, the whole discussion was pointless. Rolling her blanket and tying it securely to Galahad's horse, Frances answered steadily.

— "Well. All right. You've watched my back, I've watched yours. No use dwelling on the past."

A wide scoff escaped Bors and even Dagonet's lips quirked up. Right before they mounted, though, Frances found herself face to face with Arthur. It was like facing a stone wall in shining armour. Tall, handsome, a strong jaw – too strong for her taste – yet gentle eyes. That man had more charisma than most Hollywood actors, his presence overwhelming. Dumbfounded by her reaction, Frances realised she'd never been so close to him. His deep voice startled her with grateful words.

— "I too, have meant to thank you for your watchful protection of my knights."

— "You are very welcome, commander."

She'd love to add more, but kept the rest to herself. His green eyes searched hers for a scant moment that, in her mind, bordered on eternity. Understanding passing over them like clouds in the sky on a windy day. Even if he delved less deep than Tristan, she couldn't repress the shudder than rocked her slight frame. Where the scout could search for your darkest secrets and desires, Arthur's gaze bordered on evaluation. She felt … graded by the highest authority possible. A King's. No pressure. At last, he bowed his head to hers, and turned to address his knights.

— "We move out"

Straight and to the point; definitely a good authority figure. A few hours separated them from their destination, and Tristan would join them on the way. The wind slowly died before noon, and Frances sighed in relief behind Galahad. For all her bravado in cold weather, she really had trouble handling the icy gusts that played with her hair and froze her very bones. Half a day, and her braid was half-ruined already. Crazy strands framed her face by now, not enough to impair her vision, but enough to piss her off. How could Tristan fight with such a mane, she'd never know! Let alone Gawain ! Maybe it was high time she adopted Legolas's warrior braids on top of her ears, she'd probably have less trouble keeping it in check.

At last, the company escaped the woods and their overhanging gloom, and Arthur pushed them to a gallop. Less than an hour or so later, their pace lessened to a walk, for here, at the feet of steeper mountains, stood a Roman villa. Its pillars of white stone felt ridiculous in such a setting; the overhanging forests intend on swallowing its light. The building's structure was quite standard… for a roman house; a square design with open-air corridors and an atrium. Where they stupid enough to have a pool in the middle of their grand estate? Had those Romans ever heard of British climate, or adaptation? As they neared the huge wall of the property, peasants approached them, their faces haunted, their bodies lean and sickly. A distrustful gleam shone in their eyes, the women retreating to the back with their children, the men coming forth in an attempt to protect them, an attempt they knew would fail. Whatever happened on this estate was brutal enough to make those people despair.

The view of this proud Roman villa surrounded by misery was altogether surrealistic and preposterous, and Frances snorted. Dagonet did not react, but Bors sent her an inquisitive look. Checking that Arthur was up front, the young lady voiced her disdain.

— "Look at this. They probably had people dragging limestone all the way from Dover, built a house which design is especially adapted to scorching heat, and in a moment, they will appear clad in togas and freezing their arses in the cold while their people starve to death."

At the very same moment, the doors opened, and a short man dressed with a toga welcomed them with a forced smile. Bors repressed a chuckle at the irony of the situation while Frances eyed the man warily. She disliked him instantly, be it because of the false smile on his face, or the fact that he was an arrogant Roman. Perhaps her resentment towards Rome extended to everything that bore a toga, yet, the uneasy feeling did not seem to concern Alecto, the young man – boy! – peeking from the top of the rampart, or his wife clad in a bluish muslin. The sneer on Frances' face, though, must have been too obvious for Marius' dull eyes landed on her with contempt. Yet, he said nothing, choosing to address Arthur instead.

A flow of Latin passed his lips, the conversation none too cheery as Lancelot informed him of the Saxon army marching forth. The first knight's words brooked no argument, held nor diplomacy nor compassion, and Marius reacted at once, draping himself in his dignity, or lack thereof. His refusal to leave sparked Arthur's anger, and Frances couldn't help but marvel at his authority as he pointed his sword to his throat, stating that he'd drag him back all the way to the wall to see his knights free. Such loyalty to his men moved her deeply. Frances was too far behind the commander to see his eyes, but she imagined them shining with rightful wrath. Marius cowered back, and ordered his wife to get some provisions for the knights as he stood his ground. Stupid Roman!

— "Get back to work, all of you," he yelled to the assembly of peasants whose eyes didn't leave the company.

When the guards started punching in the crowd, Frances's heart lurched and she dismounted instantly.

— "Stop!" she yelled. "Stop this at once!"

Her blade was unsheated in the blink of an eye, her voice strong, startling the guards who had dismissed her for a sidekick. Now, standing tall in her rightful fury, her sword raised and red braid bouncing down her back, she called all to attention. Authority she had aplenty, even if she scarcely used it. It took a lot for Frances to unleash her wrath, but the violence she'd just witnessed was enough for her to lash out. The guards sneered, and drew their ridiculous gladiuses, forgetting the peasants they had mistreated and that peeked behind their backs to the confrontation.

— "Want to fight, little girl?"

— "Come, I'll teach you" she ground out.

Bors laughed out loud, jumping from his saddle to back her up. At once, bows and arrows were drawn, swords readied amongst the Sarmatian knights, their actions sending a wave of gratefulness through Frances' heart; they were protecting her.

— "She will not fight alone," came Lancelot's deadly voice as he made a show to dismount, and, in a swift move, unsheathed both of his blade with a playful twirl.

Frances' eyebrow climbed her forehead; she then smirked at the dark-haired man. For all his flirting, she was honoured that Lancelot would so blatantly offer his support.

— "What right do you have to mistreat people so?" she asked confidently to the guards.

The Romans eyed each other, at loss. But it was Marius who answered, his voice threatening, his glare fixed upon her face.

— "I have every right as a master of this domain. And who are you to question me, a wench in breeches?"

Her blade rose instantly, tapping aside Lancelot's in the process to dismiss his intervention, and pointing to the Roman. Eyes narrowing to slits, she advanced on the diminutive man as her fellow knights contained the guards with a glare. An ancient quote from Gandalf - bollocking wormtongue - came to her mind as she smiled.

— "I have not passed through ice and death to bandy words with a heartless man, dominus. Master or not, those people are born free, you do not own them."

Her gaze then turned to Arthur, and she knew she had struck a chord. Her argument called to him, and he intervened from atop his horse.

— "The lady is our companion, and will be treated as such."

His voice rang true amongst the ranks, peasant and knights alike appreciating the power of Artorius Castus. Frances bowed her head to his in a show of gratitude, barely lowering her sword before her eye caught the man suspended in irons a few yards away.

— "Arthur," she said. "That man needs help"

The commander's blood boiled as he spotted the poor elder, bare-chested, several whipping wounds dripping on his back. What sort of hell had they transformed this village into? He'd not discovered half of it, and the rest sent his mind reeling. He'd stepped into a forsaken place. A place where the master abused his power and claimed that he was a messenger from the almighty, that disrespecting him was akin to disobeying to God?

Arthur looked into the expectant faces of the peasants, measuring the hardships they'd faced under Marius' rule. In the distance, Saxons drums echoed; in a few hours, they'd be overrun and put to death. His heart throbbed painfully in his chest. Was it his Christian mind yelling at him, or his empathy? If he decided to try and save this people, the freedom he yearned to earn for his knights might very well be forfeited. But if he left them behind, he'd live forever to regret it. Suddenly, he felt the need to rely on someone for support, someone who shared his views. In a few strides, he was towering over Frances, her features set in stone as she took in the destruction of those poor souls.

— "Frances," he said, leaning close to her hear.

The woman didn't move, only nodding in a very Tristan like manner.

— "Those people are going to die if we don't help," she whispered back.

No other words were necessary to make up his mind. Ordering Ganis, an intelligent and dynamic man, to organise wagons for the sickly and wounded, he asked Frances to supervise the escape of the others. Man and woman set up to work with incredible efficiency. The abashed stares of his knights bore holes into his back, a look he could not afford to face such was his shame. His decision might very well cost them their lives. They didn't deserve it. Nor his betrayal, nor their sacrifice. Yet he couldn't see a way out.

Tristan's return confirmed his worst fears. They were surrounded, their caravan left with one solution only, the path east to cross behind Saxon lines. A dire situation. The worst of them.

— "Arthur, who are those people?" he asked warily.

Tristan's question rubbed his guilt raw, the expressionless face of his scout turning to disbelief as he answered.

— "They're coming with us."

Behind them, Frances approached purposefully, her posture tense. The scout turned to her, as if sensing her presence before Arthur even acknowledged it. For an instant, they stared into each other's eyes, as if holding a silent conversation. And then, Tristan turned back to him, the sentence falling from his pursed lips, freezing Arthur's very heart and bones.

— "Then we'll never make it."

Frances took hold his wrist briefly, her eyes travelling from the scout to the commander.

— "Then so be it"

And her determination was a balm to his heart, and an encouragement to Tristan for he turned around without protest. Snow flakes graced landed haphazardly on his face as he lifted it to the sky in a silent prayer.

— "So be it," he repeated.

The cries of soldiers yelling at the peasants to get back to work called his attention, and his gaze caught a little stone structure that was being walled up. Exchanging a look with the intrigued scout, Arthur unsheathed his sword and dismounted. At once, the remaining knights closed in around him, still mounted. The certainly cut of an impressive figure, standing proud atop their horses, weapons at the ready. Enough to intimidate the two roman soldiers that had instigated the walling in the first place. Arthur had had enough, and was grateful for their unspoken support. A heated exchange started then, with the commander quite adamant to have his way, and a scraggy monk trying to prevent him from going further.

Frances stayed behind, watching the preparations as was her assignment for the moment. There was no time for lagging. But she couldn't help but steal a glance to the uneven stone structure. And when Arthur ordered Dagonet to unleash his wrath over it, she shuddered. Something evil loomed in there, she could feel it in her bones. Lancelot and Galahad voiced their concern, the urgency adamant in the youngest's voice.

— "Do you not hear the drums ?", he pleaded.

For sure, the steady beating was getting louder and louder, echoing in the valley like a herald of doom. Frances felt it too, the need to flee as if a predator was stalking her. The fear creeping up her spine, the restlessness in her limbs. But Arthur was a stubborn man, and he didn't even have to ask for Bors to block Marius's shrill cries. The bald man, if loud and unruly, was strangely attuned to Arthur's will. They all where, and Frances marveled at Dagonet's unbreakable faith when he dismounted to swing his axe at the partially blocked door.

From the corner of her eyes, Frances spotted Galahad and Tristan's horses, both fidgeting under the tension of their masters. Then Ganis came to her, asking about food arrangement and carts, and she was kept busy organising supplies, and whipping people's asses to make them ready. The urgency of the situation was conveyed with force as she lifted elders and settled them in the few carts available. Then, a whiff of horrible stench reached her and the young woman froze. Her eyes met Tristan's, who guarded the now open door atop his horse, sword drawn. He barely blinked at her before his attention returned to the roman soldiers. A relentless guardian of the underworld. No one would go past him and yet… the pitch-black void behind him left a sour taste in her mouth. Like a door to hell, that sucked all life and light. A black hole into the wall of Marius' estate. Frances tried to block the nauseating smell, adamant to dismiss the sickening sensation that slowly crept up her bones. The wind picked up, chasing away the slight scent of rot, decay and death that had assaulted her nose just a moment before, to replace it with icy flakes. Great, snow ! Anything but that stench.

Lancelot suddenly walked from the pit, a dark knight emerging from darkness itself. His features were shocked, his eyes numb. As if he had witnessed something so horrible that even his warrior's mind could not reconcile. Arthur burst forth a moment later with a bundle that resembled a woman, her fingers bent at horrible angles. His jaw was so tense that she feared it might crack. Next came Dagonet, a child cradled in his arms. A child ! With a mop of unruly blond locks, and a startled look on his chubby face. The remaining knights enclosed them once again in a protective circle as water was brought. Frances could not repress the urge to come closer, and she caught Tristan' eye once more as he sheathed his sword, seemingly unfazed.

— "She's a woad", he told Bors, his voice even.

Said woad was now choking on the little water Arthur was trying to give her. The Bishop's secretary – Hornthorn – watched the boy's arm gently, asking about his family. A gesture of kindness coming from the haughty man who seemed genuinely distressed. Dagonet only shook his head. Dead, or missing ? Frances' throat closed in as he eyes took in the sorry state of those two human beings. A woman, and a child. What kind of sick mind could probably justify this? Marius. Marius, who voiced his displeasure that two wretched souls had been rescued from this hell hole.

— "They're all pagans here!", he protested.

As if it justified torture and death. Frances felt her knees weaken and her stomach roll.

— "So are we", came Galahad's disgusted retort.

The young woman reached for the young knight, putting a hand upon his thigh – to soothe him as much as herself – before turning her startled gaze to Marius. The man had absolutely no sense of shame, for he tried to appeal to Arthur's Christianity. He seemed genuinely surprised that he reacted so badly, as if this madness was the more normal thing in the world. He was totally, absolutely, crazy. Completely nuts.

— "You are a roman. You understand. And you are a Christian"

And he suddenly turned to his wife as rage overtook him, landing such a slap that she stumbled backwards.

— "You ! You kept her alive !"

Frances jumped forward, her blood boiling. But Arthur beat her to it as he punched the man with all his might. The force of his blow sent the dominus sprawling on the ground, half-stunned. It was but a faint repayment of what she might have done. Torturing children ! Then the commander drew his sword, pointing it at Marius' throat and the rest of the world froze. Pure fury gleamed in his green orbs, something she had never seen before. The benevolent King, brought to desperation.

— "When we get to the wall you will be punished for this heresy", hissed Marius.

— "Perhaps I should kill you now and seal my fate"

But Arthur was not one to kill in cold blood. His wrath, though, was redirected to the priest who happened to barge in in this very moment.

— "I was willing to die with them", came his feeble voice. "Yes, to lead them to their rightful place. It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed. Only then can their souls be saved"

She saw Arthur's jaw tick, the exact moment when his anger overwhelmed his usually controlled persona. His voice chilled her to the bone, eyes gleaming with hatred.

— "Then I shall grant his wish. Wall them back up"

Tristan's protest – the voice of reason – fell on deaf ears and he turned his horse around. He was the scout, their own time keeper, and his comment should have warned Arthur that time was scarce. But the commander was too far gone to hear it. And for once, Frances couldn't possibly say that she agreed as the villagers dragged the monks back into their makeshift tomb. A little revenge for such gruesome deaths. It was an act of desperation and rage. They all knew it, but none of the knights dared facing Arthur's rightful anger. Hopefully, the delay wouldn't be of consequence, right ?

Frances mulled about it for days, knowing he would not be proud of in the future. But his sanity only hung by a thread at the moment. So did theirs.


	12. Escaping in wonderland - Reviewed

**_Hey to my faithful readers. There's a lot of singing happening, but you have to keep in mind that in those times, there was nor TV nor the internet. Hence the tales and singing that were used as distractions while travelling. The one featured here is from the fantastic Irish group "Róisín Dubh". It seemed fitting with the situation._**

**_Please review if you enjoyed it. It feeds my muse! And let me know your thoughts as well _**

The wind had picked up anew, sending snowflakes swirling around on the icy ground. It was just a layer of white dust, not enough to create an immaculate blanket, but the moist rendered the path treacherous. Riding once more behind Galahad, Frances tried to spy on the conversation happening in the wagon beside her. The Pict woman and the boy were being treated by Dagonet and Fulcinia, the domina, and she strongly hoped that both would survive after the hell they'd been through. Fever seemed to have claimed the little one, and the woman had two dislocated fingers. Frances was unsure how she'd fare, even if her knuckles were set back into place. There was no X-ray to make sure of the bones' placement, no antibiotics nor modern surgery. She hoped that Arthur knew what he was doing when he decided to replace them himself. It had surprised her somehow, that the commander would volunteer for such a task. She gathered that most men, included him, knew how to perform basic survival surgery.

— "Frances? FRANCES?"

Galahad's voice shook her out of her musings, slightly annoyed and she squeezed the armoured shoulder of her gracious rider.

— "Uh? sorry, I was leagues away"

— "Yes. I gathered. Do you know how to shoot on horseback?"

An image of Legolas shooting wargs while riding popped up in her mind. She'd give anything to have him by his side right now, his battle skills would have very welcome. She, on the other hand, couldn't perform such exploits.

— "Er, I don't, no. I'm not proficient enough to shoot in a battle and not kill one of you. You'd probably be safer if you ran to hell and back."

— "Well, I could teach you."

Galahad's earnest offer warmed her heart for a moment; he was a skilled bowman.

— "That'd be appreciated. Although I fear we might not have much time for this."

— "Once we're free, we'll get plenty of time."

His innocence touched her deeply, and Frances swore she'd watch over him should difficulties arise before his freedom was granted. How long would this mission last this time? Would she be gone in days? Months? Years? What was her purpose, except for being transported from one place to another in a horrible weather? The cold has reddened her nose, and numbed her fingers already.

— "What kind of material is bow made of? I've never seen anything alike."

Frances lowered her eyes to the weapon, neatly stored on the beast's flank, leather throngs keeping it accessible in case of emergency. Galahad's, recurved bow rested on the other side of their mount. Frances was tired, and the words left her mouth before she thought about them.

— "Er … it's a standard issue, carbon fibre and such."

Her mind protested vehemently about her stupidity. Carbon fibre, really! Fortunately, her answer only elicited a raised brow from Galahad.

— "I do not know this material, how is it made?"

— "Honestly I don't know. I just use it, I didn't design it."

The knight shifted on the saddle, sending her a horrified look.

— "How can you not know how your bow was made? It is your master weapon! How will you repair it once the string is lose? Or if it breaks?"

Pink marred her cheeks as shame registered in her brain. No, her master weapon was, and would remain her beloved sword. The sword she didn't have anymore, damn her near-death experience at the black gate. But Galahad also had a point; she'd not given her bow so much attention until now. Modern bows did not need to be restrung, but you never know what could happen on the battlefield. Here, there'd be no shops to repair it. Even if it was but a replacement of the one she'd lost in the battle of Morannon, as was the sword, more care was needed. Nonetheless, she couldn't help but try and defend herself.

— "Well … there are many more when I come from, and it shouldn't break unless it meets a very bad person so … here's for hoping, right?"

Galahad shook his head, squeezing her leg in the process. There was nothing sexual in the casual touches he often gave her, their bond more similar to siblings so she let it slide.

— "No, Frances! That can't do. A good knight takes care of its weapons. You need to learn"

Damn, Galahad was so right, but his condescending tone irked her. Thus, her answer was a little stern, the sarcasm oozing out of her voice.

— "Aye, aye, sir"

Tristan's timely arrival, Lady Hawk on his shoulder, interrupted the berating Galahad was about to give her. Frances sighed in relief, albeit she wondered if the scout would second his brother's opinion. She certainly did not want to face his anger. Fortunately, Arthur appeared behind the flap of the wagon at once and mounted his horse to hear his report. Tristan's voice was low, but carried far enough so that his fellow brothers could share it.

— "The Saxons are gaining on us, but we still have some time before they catch up. The road ahead is as clear as can be."

— "No Woads?"

At this, Tristan sent a flat look to the young lady, his eyes holding the dreaded scolding as well as the interrogation about the woads' avoidance of her.

— "None"

Frances shuddered.

— "Thank you, Tristan. Let us go ahead until nightfall," said Arthur as he spun his horse around and went further up the column of refugees.

Frances expected Tristan to follow, but he turned instead to Galahad, his features schooled, but eyes alight with fire as he glared at both of them.

— "Keep your berating low, Galahad. I could hear you from the hills."

Frances stiffened in the saddle, hearing the reprimand in Tristan's voice, and the tension of Galahad's posture. Those two had trouble seeing eye to eye, and she quite hated that the current skirmish was her fault. Truthfully, she found Tristan's reaction dumbfounding; he wasn't one to protect one's feelings and would probably have bollocked her himself about her lack of tending to her bow. That was certainly what the glare was for anyway. Frances bit her lip; perhaps she was reading too much into this. Galahad, for one, was pissed.

— "Who cares if I'm heard from the hills, the Saxons know we're here anyway?"

Tristan sent him a levelled glare that the knight ignored completely. The very air was getting thicker, and the young woman might have dismounted to walk had Lancelot not appeared by their side, dark eyes twinkling in mischief.

— "If our enemies must hear a voice, I'd rather have the lady singing."

Frances groaned in a very unladylike manner. The harsh weather took a toll on her throat. She observed Gawain's hopeful face from afar; he'd slowed his mount to approach. To her, he was akin to a teddy bear, all roundness and cuteness. Except for his skills with an axe. Nonetheless, his good looks and cheerful ways were so refreshing, she wondered how he could keep his sanity of mind and still have enough authority to lead Galahad around.

— "Yeah!" she heard Bors' booming voice. "You sing almost as well as my Vanora. Cheer up this sorry lot, will you?"

— "Way better," came a mumble for aside.

Startled, Frances met Tristan's steady eyes as he observed her. His voice was unmistakable, smooth as silk, low enough to imitate a growl, beautiful and dangerous. She wondered if he'd been talking about her. The young woman stared back, silently asking for permission to sing in the open. The scout held her gaze long enough to send her fidgeting before he inclined his head, his eyes slightly squinting in what she now knew was amusement. Tristan seemed to enjoy putting her on edge.

— "Sing," he said.

A request, uttered like a command, but all that Frances head was his assent. She relented.

— "All right. But I'm tired and frozen, so don't expect anything too merry."

The first song that came to mind was one of "Róisín Duhb", singing about the freedom of their land. Catching her breath, Frances started the steady melody that was "Only our rivers run free". It was a sad song, with a very low tone – at the limits of her tessitura – but at the moment, it seemed so fitting that she lost herself in the tune.

_"Where apples still grow in November  
where blossoms still bloom from each tree  
where leaves are still green in November  
it's then that our land will be free."_

Then her voice rose a little higher, a little stronger.

_"I wander her hills and her valleys  
and still through my sorrows I see  
a land that has never known freedom  
and only her rivers run free."_

The complaint went on, the plea of land asking for freedom bubbling in her heart, and Frances sang like there was no tomorrow. Her gentle voice rose and fell, catching the attention of the Pict lady in the wagon. She couldn't make out the words, but the message seemed directed to her. She, whose people fought for their land, and their freedom against Rome. As Frances realised the words she was singing, she blushed slightly. Hopefully, Arthur could not understand her meaning; he rode ahead of the column anyway.

_"I drink to the death of her manhood__  
those men who rather have died  
than to live in the cold chains of bondage  
to bring back their rights were denied  
oh where are you now when we need you  
what burns were the flame used to be  
are you gone like the snow of last winter  
and will only our rivers run free"_

Frances's voice quivered, a lump forming in her throat. It tore at her heart, the unfairness of it all. The enslavement of the knights, the struggle from the Picts, the iron grip of Rome on people who were born free, crushed by their system. Then she lifted her gaze from Galahad's back, she caught a glimpse of moisture in Bors' eyes. Tristan was gone, he'd fallen back behind. But Lancelot… Lancelot looked at her like there was no tomorrow, his whole being vibrating.

— "What was this song about?"

Frances exhaled slowly to stabilise her treacherous voice.

— "Freedom. Freedom for the land, and its people"

Lancelot nodded before his mask took over once more, the playful glint returning to his dark eyes.

— "If one didn't know you, they could think you a sympathiser of the Woads."

She felt, more than she saw, a familiar gaze settled upon her back.

— "I sympathise with all beings being robbed from their freedom, it doesn't mean I condone their methods."

The message conveyed was caught up easily, as Galahad's hand came to rest on her knee. Gauwain, wild mane flying in the wind, spurred his horse closer.

— "It is a shame we cannot understand the words. Do you not know a song in Latin?"

Immediately, Frances's mind recalled the Ave Maria she'd learnt from the fantastic "Joyeux Noël" movie. It was a difficult one, but the greatest of all.

— "I do know of one, but it takes some skills and training. And you probably won't like it."

— "Why so?" asked Galahad. "Until now, I cannot recall disliking any of your songs."

— "It's an Ave Maria."

The knight groaned, earning a chuckle from Gauwain who turned to her, his blue eyes almost grey in the dull light.

— "I, for one, do not care about religion. But I won't shy away from an Ave Maria should your voice accompany it."

Bors laughed out loud.

— "Yeah. Who cares! sing already!"

Frances shook her head, tightening her cloak around her.

— "Maybe later in camp, if we're safe. It is far too difficult to sing while moving around in the snow, and even then I'm afraid it might be massacred by my lack of skills."

— "Nonsense," exclaimed Bors. "I'll hold you to it."

— "And Arthur will kiss you senseless," added a playful Lancelot.

Frances made a face.

— "I'd rather not"

True, Arthur was a handsome man. A little too bulky for her taste, though, she loved sharp features and slender jaws. AND to be able to circle her man's waist with her arms. Laugher punctuated her retort, as well as several juicy remarks that called blood to her cheeks. Seeing her discomfort, Lancelot only jabbed his finger in the wound.

— "You mean to say that he is not to your taste?"

— "He's closer to my tastes than you are, for one. Just not my type"

Gawain smirked, repressing his laughter at seeing Lancelot's disgruntled face.

— "Pray tell, what's not to love in Lancelot? Look at those locks! This handsome face, those shining dark eyes…"

Frances smiled. Gawain had handed her the first knight's ass on a platter, selling him like a horse at the local fair. A little revenge for his earlier attempt at selling Tristan the evening prior; she was starting to see a dynamic between the knights here. It was tempting, to say something witty and had the others laugh at Lancelot's expense, to call him a sorry bastard of a womaniser, to say that those who talked about sex the most were those who enjoyed it less. To mock his locks and call him a black sheep… A thousand retorts tan through her mind – bless her school years. But somehow, she could see through the façade. Lancelot was just coping for the horrors he'd seen in wenches' arms, looking for a little love he thought he didn't deserve. They all were. And he was just starting to open up, to warm up to her. No, now was not the time to play the witty lady.

— "He's totally lovable. Just not by me. Something to do with the seducing, I guess…"

— "Ain't that a lovely pirouette," mumbled Bors, disappointed by her lame answer.

But Lancelot did not seem to share Bors' sentiment; he'd expected an attack, not mercy. His face, though, kept the mask in place as he pried.

— "And what would your type be?"

The memory of Legolas's brilliant face flooded her mind, and for once, Frances didn't shy away from his presence. They needed to know where her heart lay.

— "I am partial to a lighter body, lean and efficient. A being that knows how graceful dealing death can be. A gentle face, with sharp cheekbones, deep eyes, wisdom and brightness. And I already found him, so not interested to find another one,"

Lancelot laughed slightly.

— "Well, the first part resembled mistakenly to our scout … as for the second…"

A piercing cry startled them all as a flurry of dark wings passed through the knights, landing on Frances' shoulder with a warning screech. She refrained from jumping, keeping her nerves in check to avoid chasing the bird away. As Bors laughed again and Gawain raised a blond eyebrow, Galahad couldn't help but tense in fear.

— "Relax, Galahad, she's a friend," said Frances soothingly as she stroked her breast feathers.

Lady Hawk gave a squeak, nibbling slightly on the lady's finger in an affectionate gesture before cocking her head aside.

— "Hey, Lady Hawk, don't eat me, right?" she whispered.

Gawain looked confused by the easy banter between bird and lady.

— "Is it normal to talk to birds where you come from?"

Frances shook her head. No, she wouldn't have approached such a dangerous animal a thousand leagues away.

— "Well, she certainly has warmed up to you," said Lancelot in an inquisitive manner.

The bird squeaked once, bringing a smile to the young lady's features.

— "We have a few things in common," she answered gently.

Lady Hawk squeaked again, and turned around to greet her master. Tristan's hand barely had the time to extend before the magnificent animal joined him. His gaze pierced the knights none too gently.

— "The lady is betrothed."

His simple words struck a chord in his brothers, and Frances marveled at this quiet authority. When Tristan spoke, his voice barely raised, the others listened. Even boisterous Bors shut his mouth, swallowing his retort as Gawain sent her a shameful look. Was it the raw power of the bird perched on his hand, or his magnetism that put them on edge? Somehow, she couldn't decide, for she knew his presence affected her as well. But not this way. She felt safe with him around, protected from harm, yet exposed to his harsh judgement. The worst was that she didn't mind that her heart and thoughts lay open for him to read; she trusted him to not slight her. Perhaps that the other knights didn't feel at ease with laying their souls bare; she'd understand it, their life had scarred them all.

Anyway, Tristan's words called some sort of contrition, for Gawain bowed his head to her.

— "Forgive us, Lady Frances. We knights have been gathered for too long and tend to banter at the expense of others."

Galahad snorted.

— "At my expense, more oft than not!"

Frances laughed at that, but her eyes were set on Tristan's, trying to convey her gratitude.

— "There is not harm done, Gawain. I rather enjoy the banter, and will not shy away from crude talk because of my gender. Believe me when I say I've heard much worse … but the subject of my betrothed is a difficult one as it pains me. My heart is set for eternity, I fear."

Her eyes got lost in the scenery of light and shadows created by the falling snow. The north of England held plenty of forests still, the hills carved and shaped into the hard granite, dark masses of trees capping the top.

— "Eternity is a very long time," came Tristan's voice, the remark only heard by Galahad.

Frances forced her eyes to stick to the hills, recalling the plight of the elves that faded from grief; Arwen's future, for sure. An eternity of healing in the halls of Mandos.

— "Yeah. To his people, there can be nothing else, even in death"

Nothing more could be said, for the concept of immortality would sell her right away. The weight of the scout's gaze, golden-brown light hiding under the unruly mane of his hair, sent a shudder to Frances' spine. Something akin to longing seemed to shine in their mesmerising depths until it disappeared entirely in his usual impassiveness. For once, Frances wondered about Isolde, the woman Tristan was supposed to love in the legends. Would she dare asking him about it ? Was a lost love the reason he was so closed off ? Or had it not come to pass yet ?

An uneasy silence settled between them, and the young woman turned to Bors and Gawain instead.

— "Feel free to mock my skills, my manners or my looks. I guarantee you'll find someone to talk to."

— "You are too lovely to have your looks mocked," answered Bors. "But not as much as my Vanora"

A snort sounded beside her, but she couldn't discern whose lips this exclamation had left as she nodded to Bors. Vanora truly was a magnificent woman that intimidated her.

— "And too lively as well," concluded Galahad in front of her. "I'd fear for my life should I mock your skills"

Frances chuckled.

— "My manners is it then…"

This time, it was Lancelot who answered with a flourish, teasing and serious altogether.

— "Nay my lady, you bear no title, yet act nobler than any of those Romans. This is why I will still call you my lady Frances."

— "Damn! I knew there'd be a catch! No pressure, uh?" she exclaimed playfully.

And just like this, the tension started to dissipate as Galahad complained about being the target of most jokes. Very soon, the sun finished its descend before sinking behind the hills, the heavy clouds refusing to release the red hues of the setting orb. Feeling that rest was near, Galahad's horse joined the head of the convoy as Arthur told Lancelot they'd settle in the trees. Then, the commander turned to his scout.

— "Tristan"

His name, nothing more; they understood each other's better than brothers. Lifting Lady Hawk at eye level, he spoke softly to her.

— "You wanna go out again? Yeah."

Tristan nudged the bird playfully, almost tenderly before he sent her flying. A familiar and intimate gesture between two companions. A mere moment later, he was galloping ahead, guided by Lady Hawk.


	13. Galahad - Reviewed

**_Hey, in this difficult period of pandemia, I wish people could keep hope. This chapter is all for it! Listen to the song, let the singer's voice penetrate your soul._**

**_For those who'd never seen the movie "Joyeux Noël" about the truce between French/British and Germans on Christmas 1914, I highly recommend it. It is beautiful, and full of hope. As it is, this Ave Maria is very different from the Schubert version, and quite brilliant. Let us consider that Frances is singing it, albeit at a lower tone because she's not a professional soprano. Still, I'd be a beautiful song, one fitting when you have a soprano voice _******

**_Have you ever felt like you found enlightment? I have, it was … difficult to describe._**

Her voice was calling, high notes dancing in the eerie forest, crystalline tunes that made the very ground vibrate in glee. Galahad knelt, as if in a trance, guided by the strangeness of this Ave Maria he'd only heard Arthur mumble before. Never in his life had he imagined that a prayer could be sung that way. He knew shaman sung to their Sarmatian Gods, albeit he didn't remember much of it. As a child, the dances had usually caught his attention much more than the muttered words, especially the dance of the spirits. All over the world, Roman or pagan, traditional songs existed, all very different, all attuned to their culture.

But this one, this sorrowful plea that went straight to the heavens, the strength of her voice, all alone, like a complaining fiddle … this he had never heard. He might have expected it from Celtic priestess; their vocal prowess were renowned, yet hidden from the world of common men.

It wasn't the voice by itself, although its crystalline undertones were beautiful, but the purpose it held. As if none could escape its presence, as if it permeated the air itself. And it touched his heart so strongly that it felt disrespectful to stand. Her first words trembled in the eeriness of the forest, the note very high, barely in range compared to what he was used to. He understood now what she meant when she said it was a difficult piece, why she had asked for a hot tea beforehand. This simply transcended human condition.

And when she closed her eyes, her confidence grew, and her voice strengthened until it filled the forest, upturning roots and trees in her wake. No one could stay indifferent as it echoed, solitary, barely grounded for it seemed to rain for the heavens itself.

Beside him, Arthur had joined his hands in prayer.

_Maria, gratia plena  
Ave, ave dominus  
Dominus tecum  
Benedicta tu_

Frances marked a pause to catch her breath and look upon them, shyness overtaking her flushed features and Galahad smiled encouragingly. He wanted more, needed more. He wanted to see where this song led Christians, if the path appearing before his very eyes was as bright as he imagined it. Faith. Was it the reward of undertaking this journey?

And she picked up again, closing her eyes anew to plunge into the bubble she had created over the clearing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galahad noticed Tristan, stalking in between trees like a shadow. His steps faltered; the scout enthralled by the ethereal quality of her voice. The young knight smiled; the unmovable knight had a heart after all. And Galahad was happy to share this moment with all of his fellow brothers, despite the misgivings and disagreements of the past.

Never before had he heard such a melody. There was magic inside, an energy that provided warmth to his body, and brightness in his heart. Even the forest, sleeping under its blanket of ice and snow, seemed to fidget under its ministrations. And the notes swirled inside of him, causing his chest to swell with hope and his mind to brighten. A wave of warmth washed over him in the icy evening, as if light from the heavens themselves had engulfed him in a loving hug. So overwhelming, so powerful that he had to stifle a sob.

_"In mulieribus_

_Et benedictus _

_Fructus ventris tui _

_Jesus"_

Throat clenched, eyes misting, Galahad could only surrender to the pull. Tristan called her a little fairy; he didn't know why and had no hopes of making the scout talk. Mayhap he was right, for the song made him body hum in surrender. It was so magic, so powerful; a mix of joy and sorrow. All of it written by the Christians and sung by a spirit from the ancient world. The bridge to link old and new beliefs, with acceptance, devoid of hatred and judgement. There, and then, Galahad was starting to understand Arthur's destiny, seeing, for the first time, the brightness of his religion.

The young knight closed his eyes, following her call, oblivious to anything but her voice.

"_Sancta Maria, _

_Sancta Maria_

_ora pro nobis peccatoribus,_

_nunc et in hora mortis nostrae_"

He could hear the strain, the difficulty of certain moments as she struggled to keep the note, the sound vibrating as more sorrow tinted her heart. How could a simple song convey so much sadness? What she exuded; raw power from within, a gift to the people present, he would never forget. How could he, when the strength of her plea pierced him through and through? The memory of lost brothers, the smile of Percival, Kay's antics and many others. All of them lost, and revived in his mind through that voice, that link to the spirit word than carried from heaven to hell.

Galahad never though a Christian prayer could move him so much; his heart welcomed the respite of the last words. Joy. Solace. Redemption.

"_Amen. Amen_

_Amen"_

There she sang low, soothingly, like a mother tugging a blanket over a sick child. And for a moment, he thought she'd finish on this tone, her voice tumbling like the water of a river, carrying them all to the ocean, wrapped in her embrace. But then, she rose to the octave, and he swore he'd never heard anything more beautiful than the crystalline notes as she ended the song.

"_Amen_"

Tears trailed down his cheeks without shame; there was nothing he could do to prevent his emotions from pouring out. He wasn't the only one. And when he lifted his gaze to the scout lurking amongst the trees, he caught the swift gesture, a discreet wiping off his cheekbone. Sheltered by his mane and hidden in his beard, a few stray tears passed unnoticed. The scout glared at his fingers, offended. Galahad smiled, marvelling that, after fifteen years of shared service and anger, it took a woman's voice to unveil Tristan's heart. Perhaps he should have tried to catch his gaze when Vanora sung of home … he might have caught the flicker of nostalgia then.

A stunned silence met Tristan's entrance, Frances standing in the middle of a clearing, her head bowed. Arthur's eyes were shining with something akin to hope, as if he'd seen the virgin Mary himself. Frozen to the spot, Frances lifted her head, confused by the heavy silence. Her eyes met the scout, and for once, he was the one who turned away. Galahad frowned when the young woman left silently, her expression unsettled by Tristan's reaction. In her wake knelt a swarm of people akin to refugees having found water after forty days in the desert.

This evening, Galahad didn't go after Frances as was his usual wont; he needed time to reflect on the new feeling blooming in his chest. There was light, bitterness receding in its wake. The burden upon his shoulders, gained from servitude, was lessening. Freedom was at hand; what would he do with it?

Somehow, the beauty of this song had cleared a concept for him; faith. And so Galahad wandered in the woods, relishing in the near silence as huddled conversations became scare and crackling fires dwindled. The soft breeze brought a few snowflakes, some dusting his eyelids playfully. Shaking them off his cloak, Galahad could only contemplate their perfection as his mind lingered in paths he had never dared wandering before. Nature has its own way of surviving, creating the most perfect plants and landscapes with such a hostile environment. Everything had its place, every plant, every root, every tree. Was it what Tristan was seeing when his eyes lingered in the woods when he disappeared for days in the wildness to scout? The slow ballet of the wilderness?

Sighing, Galahad tried to interrogate his own heart. Tomorrow, if luck was on their side, they would reach the wall and get their discharge papers. In two days, at most. Would he go back to Sarmatia to start a new life? He was, after all, only twenty-four. Which meant just old enough to find a lovely wife and marry. But that was Gawain's dream, right? Suddenly, Galahad realised that lingering in Gawain's shadow, under this makeshift big brother's protection, was entirely too convenient. Beside being the pup of the company, what was his place in the world? His aspirations, until now, were to survive another day. What would tomorrow bring? What would Galahad do, would he be remembered or forgotten entirely? Buried under the grass in the confines of Sarmatia, a father and grandfather, loved by his family?

Who was he?

More than a pup, more than a knight. Galahad has his own moral code; the reason for his numerous fights with Tristan who embraced death as a gift while he refused to deal unnecessary pain. Galahad took pride in protecting, no matter the circumstances. This feeling of completude, so out of place, came from within. And once he realised that he possessed the skill and mind to live rather than survive, Galahad realised his own worth. Faith. Faith in himself, and faith that the Gods, whomever they were, would set him on the right path to become a greater man.

His inner musings were interrupted by the appearance of a silent shadow. The knight froze, eyeing the silhouette, clad in a cloak, whose steps didn't disturb the ground. As if she owned the forest… Recognition sprang into his mind and Galahad tensed. It was the Woad woman. The Roman dress had him confused for a while, but her stealthy demeanour and gait wouldn't fool anyone; she walked like a man. And she was currently heading out of camp, deeper into the forest.

Galahad gripped his bow, rooted to the spot. Tristan was still scouting somewhere and he wondered if he should get Arthur or sound the alarm. His brothers were sleeping already; a well-deserved rest after the hardships of the day. It would be stupid to awaken them on a whim. The answer came by itself before he could come to any decision, for behind the Woad woman trailed Arthur himself. Half-dazed, as if under a spell, the tall man followed the path the lithe woman treaded but a moment before. Dark eyebrows scrunched in confusion, Galahad decided to follow, albeit at a distance.

As he delved deeper into the forest, the knight couldn't ignore the heavy silence that settled around him. A strange power was at work here, eeriness permeating the place at a silvery light enveloped him, carried by wisps of fog. It wasn't hostile, almost welcoming, like a caress upon his skin. Galahad almost snorted; he wouldn't be ensnared by such lures. Obviously, the little woad had much to hide. And if Tristan wasn't here to perform his usual duties, then he would watch over Arthur himself. After all, he was the second-best shot of the brotherhood.

Nesting an arrow between his fingers, he slowly approached the ridge where the woman and Arthur were now facing each other. Their voices barely reached him from his vantage point, still he could hear the muffled conversation. The shuffle of leaves uphill called his attention, and he barely refrained a gasp when a tall, white figure stepped out of the fog. Merlin! The Woad leader whom he had only caught glimpses of in the past fifteen years. The mist seemed to create a path for him to descent the ridge, his steps slow until he reached the Woad's side. Arthur's sword slid out of his sheath with a metallic sound that froze Galahad's insides; its familiarity conveying depths of promises. It meant business and war. Wrath and blood. Many, many times, this sound had rung into their ears just before fellow brothers fell dead amongst their ranks. A herald of doom.

For a dreadful moment, Galahad thought that he would be too late to save his commander as Merlin's hand lifted. Pulling his bow taut, he almost released the arrow that would take the Woad's life. Shaking, the young knight felt a drop of sweat running along his temple as he maintained his stance. What stilled his hand in this very moment? Galahad never really knew; only that he acted in a show of faith. Tristan would have laughed, probably, at the softness of his heart that led him to take such a risk. What if Arthur had been killed by his inaction? What kind of warrior took chances with their commander's life? Their freedom? Yet…

His hesitation would have consequences for Britain as a whole. Not that he knew it. At the very moment, Galahad huffed, the tension of his shoulders becoming difficult to withstand. Only years of practice could create muscles strong enough to keep the pose without releasing the arrow or shifting in stance. No matter what the others said, calling him a pup, Galahad was stronger than a whelp and mightily skilled with a bow.

Cries arose, Arthur seeming in distress, but the Woads making no move to attack him. Many shouts and insults were uttered, some that he could understand even from the distance. Eyebrows lifting in surprise, Galahad understood, partly, that this whole scene was very personal. He felt bad, the unwilling witness of a family affair where Arthur's expressed his grief. A little boy rather than his commander. Still … they had been to hell together. Even if they looked up to him and respected him, the knights, better than anyone, knew that he remained human.

The voices hushed now, and Galahad took a chance. His grip faltered on his bow, the string uncoiled as he lowered his weapon. The conversation didn't last for hours; long enough, though, for cold to settle and latch unto his shoulders. Exhaustion and stress exhorted him to sleep, but Galahad wouldn't leave his post until Arthur was safely settled into camp. And so he stayed until the cloaked figure left, and his commander turned away to follow her downhill. And before his steps brought him to his beloved bedroll, Galahad was surprised to find himself entrapped by Merlin's gaze.

The Woads' leader was watching him from afar, a strange feat since he was concealed by the shadows of a great tree. Yet, the white-haired man addressed him a nod before disappearing in the newly formed fog that covered his retreat. With a shudder, the young knight exhaled.

Returning to Gawain's side didn't take as long as expected; the meandering path Guinevere had taken so slowly was covered in less time than it took to sneeze. Somewhere over them, clouds veiled the moon but not enough to make it dark. Galahad walked bristly in direction of the campfire he knew to be theirs, bow in hand. He may have been the youngest, but Galahad was far from being stupid; he always kept awareness of his surroundings. One of the reasons he was still alive after all.

Gawain and Lancelot were already sleeping despite Bors' snoring. The noise should have kept them awake but several days riding in the cold were exhausting enough to knock them out efficiently. And the rumble of Bors' snores kept them alert, like a bland noise in the background that always reminded his conscience that they were out in the open.

Galahad picked up his bedroll, patting his horse as he retrieved his pack. The faint rustle of leaves reached his ears and the knight whirled around to see Gawain changing position in his sleep. Galahad's lips quirked as he settled his bedroll, then his gaze caught a shadow in the distance. The Sarmatian bow betrayed its owner, but it didn't take this detail for Galahad to know that their scout had returned. Deep greyish eyes turned to his, as if Tristan knew he'd been observing him.

Galahad nodded his greetings; they were returned just barely as Tristan took in his surroundings, his mouth set in a grim line. Whatever his findings, they were nor dire nor encouraging. What tomorrow would bring, nobody knew. Better to rest now and deal with it later. Spreading his bedroll, Galahad settled in, shivering at the coldness of the blanket. Then, right before his eyes closed, they followed the shadow prowling on the grounds. In the veiled moonlight, Tristan looked like he belonged to the land rather than a human being. He, too, could have been a spirit of the forest; he didn't disturb the ground nor the silence as he looked for a place to settle.

Then something peculiar happened. The lines of his face, painted in shadows and silver, seemed so soften. His tongue darted upon his teeth, an indication that the scout was, indeed, hesitating. After a moment when time stood still, Tristan settled on the ground, his back propped against a welcoming tree, and cast his cloak around him. Galahad wasn't surprised that his brother would sleep in a sitting position; it made fighting back easier if need be, and the scout was never taken off guard. Still, there was a tenderness in his gestures as he arranged the cloak around him, a softness to his features that he'd never seen before.

Weird.

Tristan's smooth voice rose in the silence, barely a whisper, but it carried across the clearing.

— "Sleep"

And Galahad obeyed.


	14. Pushing on - Reviewed

**_Hey readers!_**

**_I once more thank again my faithful reviewer who, even with limited network, managed to give me a piece of his (her?) thoughts! I wonder, apart from Koba, who reads me. Are you dragged from Frances's story on middle earth, or regular readers of King Arthur's world?_**

**_That's a pretty long chapter, covering multiple scenes. I hope you enjoy it! I don't dare saying "let me know" since I don't usually have much feedback:'(_**

It was a lonely night, freakishly cold as well. Frances had trouble falling asleep, shivering under her cloak and spare blanket. In this very moment, she wished she was fat. Or a man. Or accustomed to sleep outside in the snow. She wondered as well if she'd gone too far with the Ave Maria. Despite Arthur's hearty thanks, and his confessions, the young lady questioned her actions. As if, for once, she had pushed the knights to their breaking point. Most of them had spent the evening in contemplation rather than sharing laughs and jabs in camp. Tristan, for one, had entirely disappeared. Perhaps it was just the stress of the Saxons being on their tail, or the difficult discoveries of the prisoners and their torture that weighed them down. But somehow, Frances doubted that it was the only reason.

At last sleep claimed her, a strange dream plaguing her mind. Arthur stood over the round table, his head crowned, his faithful knights ready to do his bidding. There were many new faces, youthful and experienced, all eager to serve the new King. Lancelot sat to his right, ever the first knight, Gawain and Galahad a little sideways. Bors was there too, Dagonet by his side, like the brothers they always seemed to be. But Tristan was nowhere in sight. Frances turned around, looking for him, expecting him to pass the door after a morning spent scouting, but there was no spare seat for him. "Where is Tristan?" she called to the others. But none could remember his name, features closed off, wondering who was the strange woman frantically searching for one they didn't know. At last, Arthur strode to her, setting a compassionate hand on her shoulder.

— "My lady, I am sorry to say that there is no knight named Tristan in my court."

Frances started, her eyes opening to an endless pit of darkness. The weight of his hand still rested on her shoulder; the contact that woke her. Her fingers flew to the dagger at her belt, shivers wracking her body as she squinted to discern the man who dared setting his hands upon her but she could only make out faint lines. She was cold, so cold that her extremities were numb. Fingers touched her collarbone gently, leaving a trail of heat.

— "Sleep," a smooth voice said.

And she settled back in the embrace of the tree's roots, her heart obeying the command. She knew that voice, she was safe. A heavy cloak landed around her shaking form, the knight beside her resting his head on the trunk she'd nested against, wrapped in the woolen cloth. The contact of his warm hand, though, stayed until she succumbed to Morpheus.

The wake-up call was harsher than a bucket of icy water. Tension filled her body, and Frances sprang to her feet like a coil unleashed. Adrenalin course through her veins, making her more alert, her chest heaving from the rude awakening. Her sword was unsheated, ready to parry, and the young woman marveled that she did not even remember drawing it. Sounds of a scuffle reached her ears and she let her legs carry her to the clearing where the knights had fallen asleep the day before. Marius' voice rose above the others, yelling something about a boy, then his shrill voice.

— "Kill him, kill him now !"

— "Let him go!", screamed a woman.

Fulcinia's voice. Frances blood drained from her face as took in the scene before her. Marius held a dagger at the boy's throat, Alecto and Fulcinia stood a little sideways, the woman held protectively within her son's embrace, before a very angry Dagonet. The knight was a sight to behold, long dagger in hand in his fighting stance, his impressive muscles coiled. But he didn't move an inch, for Lucan's life hanged in the balance. Three roman soldiers, chainmail and stupid helmet upon their head, fidgeted under their master's order. Sword drawn, Frances could only stop in her tracks before Marius spotted her. She wasn't about to let Dagonet die; but any wrong move, and the blood of the boy would taint the frozen earth. Silence fell for a second, the longest of moment when all actors considered their next move. Until the characteristic whistle of an arrow, and the faint thud of Marius falling on the ground echoed in the clearing. Alecto ran to his father's side while Guinevere, pale blue dress flowing upon her slender frame, walked in, bow in hand.

Damn, the woman had a mean aim. Cool, and efficient. Behind her walked in Arthur and Lancelot, dressed and armoured for battle, and Frances couldn't help but snort. Guinevere, flanked by her two lovers; it had started already. A loud battle cry startled them all as another arrow embedded itself at the soldiers' feet. Bors' stallion galloped in the clearing as he yelled:

— "Do we have a problem ?"

Behind the soldiers, Frances spotted Galahad and Gawain, already mounted and fully armed as well. She could only marvel at their efficiency, for it had not been more than a minute since all hell had broken loose. There was a little subsequent yelling as Dagonet brandished his broadsword threateningly, demanding that weapons be set on the ground. The roman soldiers hesitated, and Frances lifted her own to cover the flank.

Arthur straightened, donning once more the persona of the commander as he posed an ultimatum.

— "You help, or you die"

Frances refrained a smirk; the man had a way with words. His authority, though, was enough to convince the roman soldiers to surrender their weapons willingly. Seeing that disaster was averted, the young woman sheathed hers. Perhaps, with Marius's death, the tension would lessen a bit. The Saxons were already tailing them; they could not afford to be attacked within their own ranks.

Just on cue, another set of hooves pounded on the floor as Tristan appeared at the edge of the encampment, long strands shielding his eyes. Bors' teasing didn't stop the scout as he launched something at Arthur's feet. Panting from the exertion, his stern voice announced:

— "Armour-piercing. They're close. We have no time."

Arthur's grim face turned to Tristan as he told him:

— "Ride ahead"

The scout turned his horse around, sweeping the scene in a glance. His gaze caught Frances's red hair as she studied the armour piercing cross blot on the ground – she was safe – before he disappeared in a flurry of cloak. He didn't see the frown on her face as she turned to him, only for her to catch his disappearing form. Nor the crease between her eyebrows as she mulled on such a weapon. Saxons of the fifth century didn't have crossbows. Nor armor piercing weapons at the time. It was just too early in history. Something was very, very wrong.

As she rode Dagonet's horse while he cared for the injured, Frances traced the Hawk in the sky, indicating Tristan's location somewhere ahead. She wondered for the umpteenth time if she'd dreamt his presence last night, for when she awoke, the scout was nowhere in sight, the heavy cloak gone as well. And those damned crossbows haunted her thoughts. Could it be that another like her roamed those lands, fighting for the Saxons ? A counterpart of sorts, with decisions opposite of her own ? Damn, the certainly hoped not. Shivering under the elvish material of her garment, she spotted Dagonet exiting the wagon Guinevere and Lucan were tended to. The knight eyed her suspiciously before addressing her.

— "Get in the wagon, Frances."

The young woman frowned. She liked him, he was quiet and observant, and quite well disposed towards her, if a little overprotective. Seeing him in full battle mode this very morning left no doubt regarding his efficiency; Dagonet was no mere gentle giant. One to be feared, even. But she failed to understand his motives right now.

— "Er. Why?"

The giant man walked beside her, patting his horse's mane.

— "Your hands are numb, you won't be able to fight if needed."

— "It will be warmer with you in front."

Dagonet rolled his eyes and stopped his horse with a click of his tongue. There was naught Frances could do, for the animal's allegiance didn't extend to her.

— "And my horse needs the rest," he added with a pointed look.

Frances smirked at the change of strategy. Those who dismissed Dagonet's cleverness due to his silent ways were sorely mistaken. Like Tristan, he saw and understood much, chosing to keep it to himself rather than boast about it.

— "Since I am being kicked out, Sir Knight, I will gladly populate the sick and impaired wagon," she stated haughtily.

The giant chuckled as she dismounted in a flurry and caught up with the wagon. Easing herself inside, she was greeted by startled looks. The poor roman woman, Fulcinia, had just lost her horrible husband and she wondered what could be said in such a case. Had she been complacent, or just another victim of Marius ? Roman women had very little rights and consideration compared to Celts, and she seemed a caring individual. Perhaps then she would just wait and see before judging.

— "Order from the healer," she stated as she settled down in an unoccupied corner.

Frances made an effort at small talk, enquiring about Guinevere's hand which seemed to heal properly, and the little one's fever who was subsiding. Dagonet was right: without the wind, she was slowly regaining the control of her hands and feet. Losing herself in her thoughts, she let the bumps of the road lull her to a meditative state. Until the Pict woman's incessant prattling about Gods, the country, and the infamous Arthur shook her out of her musings. Narrowing her eyes to the dark-eyed lady, she observed as she played her game of seduction on Arthur who was riding on the other side of the window. A jab here, a little guilt, a little mischievousness and lots of guts, all packed with the self-confidence of a woman used to have her way. Her goal remained obscure, one Frances couldn't decipher. For now. If the Pict wanted Arthur, why was she so adamant about him being a murderer of his people? Reminding him of his inheritance and the blood of his mother. Frances couldn't see Arthur's face, but his silences were enough for her heart to clench for him. Those words could only bring him pain. He'd endured so much already that she felt like slapping the Pict.

Arthur had come to her, the evening before, to thank her for the grace of her Ave Maria. His face was glowing in the night, his green eyes alight with hope, and she knew she'd touched him.

— "Never have I heard such a beautiful tribute to Mary," he told her. "How can you tell you are not Christian, when you sing like an angel,"

Frances gasped, her cheeks reddening as she stared at the frozen ground.

— "Your praise is too much. But I hope to convey how beautiful faith can be when uncorrupted. What those monks have done is despicable, I wanted to put a balm to our souls. I needed it. It is not because I don't share the presence of this beautiful energy through religion that I don't feel it."

Somehow, Arthur could not understand why Frances was so closed off against religions when she brought such hope. He couldn't know that Christianity would prove so destructive against its own. Inquisition, religion wars, massacres, crusades against the Cathars, against the Moors. Name an atrocity, the church had committed it! Of all it had not come to pass yet. Still, Arthur accepted Frances as she was, hence the true light in his eyes.

— "I believe I understand, and you have managed beautifully."

Frances bowed her head in gratitude.

— "That was my hope. You know my thoughts on religion, I believe that no institution should ever dictate people's faith. What happens between God and yourself is yours to own, and no one else"

Shifting slightly, Arthur settled fully on the ground.

— "I fear that my decisions have condemned my knights to death. Yet I cannot will myself to regret it when I see the faces of those people. I couldn't leave them to die, I'd be no better man than Marius"

Frances nodded sadly. She feared for the knights as well; would she be strong enough to save them if the Saxons overcame them? How could she, a mere girl, make a difference? She hoped the Valar would give her a hand if needed.

— "I understand your plight. Being a commander, to lead for the greater good, is a heavy burden. I have known a man in a similar position some time ago, always able to make the right choice even if he doubted himself. Had I been in your shoes, I would have been at loss"

Arthur gave her a fond smile, imagining Frances wearing his boots. What a funny expression.

— "Nay, you'd done the same. It was your support that helped me take this decision."

Frances's hazel gaze searched his earnest green, and the gratitude she found warmed her heart. How he reminded her of Aragorn, the rightful King of Gondor. Arthur's stunned expression called for a quote she'd heard Elrond tell his adoptive son.

— "Eä estel illumë"

Arthur's eyebrows nearly met his hairline at the elvish she served him, and Frances chuckled, remembering the many times she'd given hope back to Estel when his spirits were low. It seemed that bringing reassurance to future Kings were the things she did best.

— "There is always hope. In elvish, the language of my betrothed."

It was quite a shortcut, to quote Quenya as Legolas' language, but now wasn't the time to discuss semantics.

— "You have faith, still, that you will find him?"

His voice was low, the question tentative, as if approaching a wounded beast. And somehow, he wasn't wrong. Sometimes, Frances interrogated the faint link she shared with Legolas, this slight glow buried deep in her heart that only deep meditation could reach. And then, she knew he was alive still, and waiting for her.

— "For three long years I have not given up. He's here, I feel it, and will not renounce until I find him."

A deep sighed escaped Arthur as his gaze got lost in the snow-laden forest.

— "Sometimes I envy you"

Had it been anyone else, Frances would have sprung to her feet and shouted her lungs out that she'd never been so miserable since her separation from Greenwood's prince. But Arthur's sad posture told her that something loomed below the surface.

— "How so?"

— "I have loved, and lost as well. But there will be no reunion for me."

Frances stiffened. She'd seen the sadness in his eyes whenever there was talk of her betrothed.

— "What happened?" she asked gently.

Arthur did not meet her eyes, recalling the events of his past.

— "She was beautiful, and so young. The daughter of a merchant at the fort. It took me a long time to understand that I loved her. Even more to gather my courage and talk to her."

— "Did she return the feeling?"

Arthur gave her a sad smile, his hand idly scratching at the armour he had yet to shed.

— "Very much so. I went to her father, to ask for her hand. And he refused me, stating that I could die anytime, and leave his daughter in a dire situation."

An unladylike growl of frustration answered him.

— "Nonsense. Anyone could die in this forsaken world. Accident, disease, name it you have it."

Arthur nodded.

— "How sadly true. His father told me he'd allow her to marry me when I became the commander of the knights, a respected figure at the fort. That it could somehow secure her future"

Frances pursed her lips. Arthur had no wife, it could only mean something went very wrong with that plan. Silence. The snow falling in a whirlwind as the flakes covered the icy ground. A sigh, and then, the chopper came down on Arthur's happiness.

— "She died, the winter after I took over the knights. A bad fever that killed one tenth of the fort's population, and left desolation in its wake. She was the kindest of souls, while so many bitter ones remained. There was so much to do, I didn't even take the time to mourn her until many months later. But when I did, I almost shed my God away"

Frances blinked back tears, the waves of sadness pouring out of Arthur and piercing her through.

— "But she still is in your heart."

— "And I cherish her memory. The way her blue eyes lit up when I came to purchase a little bread, the swing of her blond hair brushing her hips, the way her lips curved upwards in a smile when her father had his back turned. Somehow, she made me a better man"

Extending her hand, the young woman clasped the commander's. His skin was warm, much warmer than hers.

— "I'm sorry, Arthur. I know it doesn't help, but still…"

She had kept her hand in his for a while until he had excused himself and strode away.

The memory faded as Arthur's voice, angry, lashed out at Guinevere who laid in the wagon. The commander had had enough, fed up with the Pict's abuse about his knights. Nonplussed, the dark-haired lady turned to Lancelot, speaking of the paradise they currently were roaming. Frances scoffed at that, hidden in the shadows. What a slut! One lost, a second one in tow. And to qualify this place such… All right, Frances loved England and Scotland, but not was scarcely the time to babble about its beauty. They were all miserable and frozen to the core. Well, all the people riding outside, that is.

She hoped Tristan didn't get caught in high ground with the wind. There was not much body fat on the scout, she could tell by the way he moved that he was all efficient muscle and anxiety. His sheer bulk was the result of a hearty constitution, heavy training and the burden of his armour worn all day long. Not a chance to gain some weight, nor to get a little insulation against the cold. Frances wondered for a scant moment what Tristan would look like in a modern setting. Tall for sure, probably brighter, with a little less muscle, and hopefully a heart not trampled upon. Raising a brow, she left the weird idea scatter in the wind. The fifth century clung to her skin at the moment, all itchiness and scratchiness when it came to fabrics. When was elvish cloth when you needed it?

The scout must have heard her thoughts, for his voice greeted her senses as he questioned with Dagonet.

— "Where is Frances?" he asked casually.

— "In the wagon"

Frances could easily imagine his stern look hidden behind his shaggy mane.

— "Why?"

His voice sounded a little more strained than usual, almost worried. The scout wasn't one to make speculations, asking for information with the shortest amount of words. But at this moment, she realised he was alike to many men; his thoughts ran further than his voice.

— "To keep warm. Her hands were frozen on the reins."

— "Give me her bow"

It was an order, a weird one at that, and the slight fumbling outside indicated that Dagonet complied. Did this knight ever complain? Somehow, Tristan and Dagonet seemed to have an understanding, perhaps due to their lack of conversational skills. Frances jumped on her feet, setting the wagon's flap aside to meet a pair of darkened eyes. And then, the most extraordinary of things happened. Tristan levelled his horse to the wagon and held his hand out to her.

— "Come, ride with me."

She did not hesitate, her fingers grasping his for the first time, the contact sending tingles through her spine. A slight jump, and she was secured behind him.

— "Hold tight," he ordered, his voice low.

His horse spurred forward, disappearing at a gallop as the young woman hoisted her hands around his middle.

Dagonet shook his head, observing with a smirk the shell-shocked face of his fellow brothers.

— "Did Tristan just…", started Galahad.

— "Take her scouting ?"

Gawain's jaw had trouble not hitting the floor, and Lancelot couldn't help but comment bitterly at the turn of events, his attention diverted from Guinevere who pouted instantly. As usual, Dagonet refrained from joining such banter, but his mind was screaming. He'd never thought he would see the day when Tristan took fancy over a woman. Too bad she was already betrothed.

Tristan was aware of the commotion he'd probably created among his fellow brothers. He didn't mind; they could banter to their own death for all he cared. His decision to take Frances along puzzled him though. He only intended to ask her about Guinevere in the first place; he didn't trust that Woad woman. For a short moment, he felt the panic at not seeing Frances amongst the knight; he'd feared something had happened. His hand had lifted of its own accord, reaching for the little fairy as she appeared at the wagon's door. Just to ensure she was there, and safe.

For now, he was silent, his mind bollocking him for being so stupid. He couldn't possibly scout like this, she'd for sure make noises, or try to talk when stealth was needed. He despised the moment of fear that had short circuited rational mind. If something had happened, the knights would have been in disarray. And the lady was more than capable of fending for herself. Tristan felt like a fool, overwhelmed by feelings he didn't want to pry into. Behind him, Frances had noticed his tension. She adapted well to his horse's gait, and his own moves. Moulded behind him, providing a little warmth and, if he was true to himself, some comfort. Not unlike the strange sense of belonging that had washed over him as he slept beside her. Anyway. Mayhap she was used to travelling behind someone since she didn't master horse riding so well. The fact was … that it was quite pleasant not to be alone, for once.

The scout had to admit that she didn't engage him in conversation, nor impaired his senses as he observed the path ahead. Instead, he could feel her focus on the road, her hand ready to fling to her weapons. A shrill cry called his attention ahead, and Tristan slowed his horse to a canter to greet Lady Hawk on his arm. Frances gave the bird a little nudge from behind him, her presence discreet until she tapped his shoulder.

— "Something's burning," she mouthed quietly into his ear.

Tristan lifted his head, smelling the air. The fragrance of snow, and the icy wind greeted his senses. But then, a whiff of cinders passed in the breeze. Her sense of smell was certainly more acute than his. Sending Lady Hawk away, they sprang to a gallop until they found a village burnt to the ground. Tristan dismounted hastily, almost knocking Frances off balance. Damn! He'd nearly forgotten she was there; she had such a quiet presence. Before he could turn around though, she had dismounted on the other side, exploring the remains, sword in hand. Not a word passed between them, Tristan sending her a "be on your guard" look. She nodded, walking cautiously in the snow, silent as a wildcat, looking for survivors. There were none, the villagers slaughtered on the spot, huts burnt to the ground.

When they set off once more, he remarked that Frances clung a little tighter to his waist. Sometimes, her head even rested on his back when his warhorse slowed down. She didn't say a word, but he could feel the heaving of her chest, the shivering of her form. There was no sniffle, no sobs, yet Tristan knew she was crying. The knight put his hand over her arm to provide a little comfort, surprised at his own gesture; he was no tender man. To bear witness of mass murder and remain impassive was his curse, not hers; she felt too keenly to be a good warrior. At dealing hope, though, she was a master. And not so bad with a blade.

At last, Tristan turned his mount around, satisfied that they'd covered enough ground for now. As he relaxed in the saddle, Frances sat straighter behind him.

— "The Woad, what are her intentions?"

Frustration washed over Frances, feeling quite sheepish she had failed at understanding Guinevere motives.

— "I'm not sure yet, but I don't trust her."

Her own repulsion for the Pict left her dumbfounded, especially after the torture the poor woman had been through. Somehow, her empathy seemed quite broken, and the knight's voice lowered to a growl as stiffened in the saddle.

— "Sure of what?"

— "She's been harassing Arthur, and then Lancelot. As if she didn't know which one to ensnare. I don't understand what she aims to do once she has them though."

Her only answer was a few mumbled words and curses, some of them in Sarmatian.

— "Stupid knight, always womanising"

— "Yeah. Lancelot is quite prone to finish in the clutches of a lovely maiden."

At this, Tristan actually snorted.

— "Bah. She's plain as a goat."

Frances muffled a high-pitched laugh, her whole body shaking with mirth, arms tightening across his waist in an effort to keep steady. In front of her, the knight chuckled as well, happy that his heartfelt retort had extracted Frances from her sombre mood. It was a wonder how her joy, even if short-lived, lifted his spirits. The sound reminded him of a tinker bell, making his body hum in pleasure. He wouldn't tell her that he found her a thousand times more lovely than the woad bag of bones; it was a privilege her betrothed only should have, and he respected that.

— "Sing for me," he eventually said as his horse walked peacefully.

— "Your wish is my command," she sarcastically retorted. "I wouldn't want you to dub be a plain goat should I refuse,"

Tristan chuckled; he'd caught her meaning well enough.

— "Please"


	15. Icicles - Reviewed

Frances walked, lonely, her gaze lost into nothingness as the heavy blanket of snow soaked her walking boots. The atmosphere was tense, Saxons drums being carried by the wind. How she wanted revenge! Her mind couldn't get rid of the horrible sigh that had greeted her in the burnt village the day before. Men and women slaughtered mercilessly, left to die in a crimson pool as snow covered their bodies, some of them calcined by the blazing huts. One silhouette, in particular, has stabbed her through the heart in its stillness. It was a child, nary two years old, his cheeks marred with tears as he clung to his dead mother's arms. His blue eyes contemplated the endless sky, wide with terror, a shaggy wound piercing him through and through. The merciless embrace of death had been instantaneous; the only comfort Frances could find in this absurdity. Her arm was humming with dark energy, her core asking for revenge.

The next step she took nearly send her tumbling down, for below the snow laid a flat expense of ice. Before her, Arthur was asking people to spread around the smooth surface of the lake. Frances knelt, trying to assess the depth of the ice. 10 cm at least, maybe 20, but would that be enough to hold them? The young woman skidded to the commander, the ice gently cracking below her steps, but not giving way. Damn! This would have been so much easier with her skates! But she'd had enough knowledge of the ice to keep her balance, and breathed in relief as she reached her destination without tumbling all over the man.

— "Arthur!"

The Roman turned around, his features alarmed until he realised who had called him. As she skidded to a stop, his jaw unclenched. A sign of trust that baffled her.

— "Frances"

His curt nod greeted her and she eyed the lake warily, taking in the gentle slope on the other shore.

— "Stick to the sides! The heaviest must follow the shore, the ice is thickest there. Wagons and horses. Light people in the middle, so that they can be pulled out by the others if needed"

Arthur nodded his assent and relayed the command to his knights who organised the others in mere seconds. He didn't discuss it; in the rush, he simply chose to trust her judgment. Frances marvelled at the knights' efficiency albeit she wondered that no one had thought about it before. After all, it was just a bit of physics, a tad of phase diagram and notions of inertia. Nothing extraordinary if you had experienced it before.

Her gaze encountered the scout who was slowly making his way across the lake, the sudden groaning of the ice making horse and rider alike jolt in fear. For the first time, angst was marring his handsome features. Gawain, a few feet away, seemed ready to pass out such was the terror in his eyes. Obviously, the knights didn't feel at ease with water, which would explain why Tristan had not designed a strategy about it. If she recalled correctly, there were no lakes in Sarmatia, only a few rivers, and scarcely enough to determine where the tribes should settle. It was no wonder the knights feared frozen lakes, and rightfully so; they probably avoided them like the plague.

Frances skidded to Gawain, holding her hand out.

— "Let me lead your horse, I'm lighter than you are," she offered.

Gawain nodded, a gleam of relief shining in his blue eyes as he gave her the reins. Quite the gift, for no one but Jols and themselves usually tended to Sarmatian horses.

— "Do you want to walk beside me?"

The knight nodded vehemently; his voice stolen.

— "You stick to the shore side, all right Gawain?"

— "Yes, Lady Frances"

— "And shove the lady somewhere else."

The jab surprised him so much that he laughed, a nice recollection of the good-natured knight that he usually was. His shoulders dropped slightly, a little confidence regaining his posture.

— "Don't worry," added Frances. "The ice is thick, it should hold."

The conviction in her voice was hard pressed, at best, and Frances shared a look with Tristan. His features were carefully neutral, the gleam of fear carefully buried under the mask of indifference; he wasn't blind to her attempt at reassuring them. Closer to the cliffisde, the little caravan seemed to progress without issue, even if the giant noise of ice cracking echoed through the whole valley, sending shivers down her spine. It was an impressive growl, as if the mountain itself was trying to come down. It reminded her of the French Alps when a piece of glacier broke apart and fell into the lake in front of her eyes, the mighty crack reverberating through the entire valley. The grumble made the very earth tremble below their feet, and Frances swallowed nervously. A prayer was sent to the Valar, let them not allow the ice to claim their lives.

Behind them, the refugees were slowly starting their trek across the ice. Babies cried, elderly skidded and faces were afraid. Frances sighed. They needed help, and reassurance. This, she could provide, and it would give Tristan a sense of purpose to lead the people. As it was, she could nearly see his fists trembling. No amount of skill or planning could foresee the outcome of this crossing, and she realised why the scout was so tense. Victory or defeat was entirely out of his hands; there was no controlling it. The mountain decided if they should live or die. Period. And thus, each of Tristan's step was a test to the spirits of the water. Graceful, always, but tentative. By her side, Gawain was another affair, his heavier stomps unsure on the slippering surface.

— "Come. Let's stick to the other shore, the slope is less pronounced, the ice will be sturdier there. I'll go first, you follow, and so will they"

And thus, Frances retreated a few steps back to gather the people who had not started to cross yet, and created a path for others to follow close to the other shore. It would lessen the strain on the ice since the wagons were so heavy.

— "Keep ten feet between people, thirty between the wagons at least !", she cried out.

She heard Galahad trying to enforce her instructions further down the line; the dark haired knight was visibly more at ease on ice than his elder brothers. Gawain's horse, at first, seemed reluctant in her grasp. But he sent tongue clucks and reassuring noises as he followed her and the nervous animal eventually followed. Behind them, Tristan was whispering words of reassurance to his own mount. It was his way to keep his stoic façade, she gathered. Easier to reassure someone else than to delve on your own fear. She wondered once more how the others could think him heartless when his care for animals was so gentle. As she turned to Gawain, gesturing for him to follow, a small smile rewarded him.

Step after step, the warhorse set his hooves down with care, creating a little clap clop that echoed on the ice. Frances tried to keep her steps even, her feet skidding slowly in front of the beast, eyes fixed on the ice to spot any crack of rock that could fragilise it. Fortunately, the thickness seemed enough to sustain their combined weight.

And then, the constant boom of war drums echoed in the valley. Frances's steps faltered slightly, so did Gawain's. Her head lifted to find Arthur a mere fifty feet away; he was standing tall surrounded by Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet, curly hair damp with snow. The scene shifted before her eyes. Everything blurred, the snowflakes falling before her face, the wind whipping at her hair, the immaculate landscape before her. All in black and white, as Dagonet fell into the lake, two bolts piercing his body as his axe shattered the ice. Frances' heart stuttered, her breath short. Her free arm extended in a silent plea, the scream stuck in her chest, dread crushing her heart. Boom, boom, boom, called the drums as he disappeared in the icy grip of the frozen surface.

Tristan skidded into view, seizing her arms harshly to halt his hurried dash, nearly sending them toppling over. His braids whipped at her face such was his closeness, his worried gaze appearing before her.

— "What is it?" he asked, straightening himself.

Frances startled, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest as she tried to see behind his shoulder. The caravan was progressing neatly, the ice intact. No glimpse of Dagonet into the lake; the tall knight stood proudly on the other side. The young woman noticed Tristan, realising that the warmth she felt on her shoulder were his hands holding fast. Her gaze was haunted, quite absent. His worry only intensified as she uttered shakily.

— "I don't know"

For a moment, he searched her face as she composed herself. Behind them, Gawain was slowly closing the distance.

— "Anything wrong?" he called worriedly.

— "I'm OK," she said.

Tristan frowned, his eyes flickering between his fellow knight and her face.

— "OK?"

The word felt weird under his silky tongue. Once more, he didn't understand her. The young woman shook her head, as if to get rid of a veil plaguing her sight. The mask slipped into place, so similar to his, and warmth returned to her hazel eyes. Then, determination set in. Frances was back, and she turned aside to acknowledge Gawain.

— "It's all right. I thought I saw something, but it was just my imagination playing tricks. Let us go ahead. Those blasted drums make me feel like killing somebody. A drum player, most of all"

The blond knight scoffed beside them.

— "Be a pleasure to put an end to this racket."

Tristan smiled despite himself, but not without sending a suspicious look to the young woman. Yet, he kept his mouth shut. Frances was hiding something, but if she didn't want to talk about it, he would not pry. This was how far his trust had gone in the short extend of their acquaintance; he accepted her secrets whereas he would have extracted them forcefully just a week before. No doubt she was still trying to come to terms with the village they'd found yesterday. It had been a gruesome sight for a young lady, even one such as she. Especially one such as she. Gawain, for one, seemed quite oblivious about what had just transpired. Sweet Gawain, nearly as naïve as Galahad! He was as sturdy of heart as he was of mind, being able to kill for fifteen years and still keep his inner self unplagued. As if the golden knight feared nothing… Tristan smirked. Nothing except for the water spirits; this frozen lake sent him trembling in his boots.

At last, the crossing of this blasted lake was completed, and Tristan sighed in relief when his feet did not hover over water anymore. There, they'd all decided to make their stand. There they would die an honourable death. Nine of them against two hundred Saxons at least, that would be a battle to remember. But what could they do? Arthur had known all along that his decision to take refugees could lead them to this confrontation. Yet, the pride that shone in his green eyes as the knights aligned themselves was a sight he'd never forget. If he was to die today, Tristan was happy that it made his commander proud. They'd never been close, Arthur and he. No one had ever been close to him, not since his cousin had died more than ten years ago. But he knew the commander respected him, and he, in turn, admired Arthur.

His only regret was the presence of Frances amongst their ranks. Guinevere, he didn't care, especially now that she was garbed as a Roman. But Frances, damn! She deserved to find her betrothed, she deserved a better life than this. A better death. But she wouldn't be deterred, hence his words as he came to her.

— "Stay close," he asked her.

No, he commanded her.

Frances gave him a genuine smile but fled to place herself between Galahad and Gawain. The youngest knights started at her presence, and welcomed her with heavy hearts, but a spark of hope in their eyes. The scout frowned, anger flooding his body. Of all times, she'd chosen this one to disobey! Never before had she disobeyed his command! Nor a request, now that he thought of it. She sang for him, reported to him, and shared her thoughts whenever he asked. They were running out of time, and that blasted woman would get herself killed! Suit herself. With the odds, there was no way he could protect her anyway, he'd have enough work slaughtering Saxons before he succumbed to the grip of death. There'd always be time for a good scolding in the afterlife!

A last, the Saxons appeared on the other side of the lake. A band of ruthless warriors, even shaggier that he was after fifteen days on the saddle. A bald man, about his age, seemed to lead them. His braided beard, a blond goatee, hung from his chin ridiculously. There was a man he'd enjoy killing. One of their archers lifted his bow, and even from afar the familial twang echoed against the cliffs. The Saxon's arrow pathetically skidded on the ice, landing a hundred feet from them at least. Arthur stole a glance at him, dark humour in his voice as he commanded:

— "l believe they're waiting for an invitation. Bors, Tristan"

Smirking at Guinevere's comment that they were out of range, Tristan knocked three arrows, and drew his bow as far as he could before releasing. Four Saxons fell, pressing the leader to march on. A fatal mistake. At once, all knights started to fire at will, following Arthur's clever idea to make them cluster. He didn't know if Frances's arrows embedded themselves as precisely as Galahad and Gawain's had, but he knew her bow sang alongside theirs. Her elbows showed up now and then on the other side of their line. Surprisingly, Guinevere's shots seemed quite accurate as well. The Saxons panicked, but still marched on. And that blasted ice refused to break, when it had been ready to swallow them whole but moments before! Damn the Saxon gods watching over them! They were, evidently more powerful than Arthur's. There was a hint of urgency in his commander's voice as he realised it himself.

— "lt's not gonna break. Back. Fall back! Prepare for combat."

Tristan unsheathed his word in a graceful arc, dark emotions swirling about him. The need for blood, the thirst of revenge, and, for the first time in years, a little uncertainty. He wished the little fairy didn't have to die this way, even if she'd been too cheeky to leave his side. A quick glance at Arthur told him his commander followed the same line of mind, albeit he was worried for two of the ladies. Tristan didn't care for the Woad. She was a manipulative bitch that could take a dive in the lake if she so wished it. But Frances, damn! He wouldn't let any man defile her; he'd kill her himself before they touched her. He chanced a quick peek aside to see how she fared; hopefully, they'd be able to share a final glance before chaos unleashed its wrath. Somehow, she always seemed to know when his eyes rested upon her. But not this once.

Tristan couldn't help the disappointed pang that ran through his heart. No goodbye. So be it. Frances' mind was elsewhere, her head turned around to check on Dagonet. He found it odd that her attention didn't move from the tall knight. He knew she got along well with him, but not once did her head turn to himself. And then, Dagonet picked up his axe with a yell, and sprang forward like a demon. At once, Frances had plunged to get Gawain's shield, and ran after him, her sword still in the scabbard. Weird; she had not even unsheathed it in the first place. Tristan's heart leapt into his throat, sweat running down his spine as he took an involuntary step forward. Had he been a more expressive man, he would have yelled his frustration at the top of his lungs. Being the silent scout, he only sent to hell the wave of angst that washed through his body. Yet, his hands were trembling in fear. They were running to their death! She was…

— "Dag!" echoed Bors's desperate yell.

— "Cover them"

Arthur's voice called him back to reality, and Tristan rushed to his bow. He'd be more efficient with his mind clear, picking the Saxons who aimed their crossbow at his friends. Before him, the young woman preceded Dagonet now, and skidded to a halt a few feet in front of him to provide cover. There she took her stand, alone against a Saxon army, crouching behind the shield in a protective stance. An impressive sight, if she had not been about to be slaughtered.

— "Get back, you mad woman !", yelled Dagonet as he lifted his axe.

She didn't seem to bother responding as the axe fell on the ice with a mighty blow, Dagonet displaying his full power as he pounded the lake's surface with battle cries. Gone was the gentle giant, replaced with the unstoppable warrior. A few bolts deflected on the diminutive shield, leaving Frances' legs exposed. Yet, she did not back down, keeping her stance to protect the much larger frame of Dagonet. Their bows were singing relentlessly, taking out Saxon after Saxon as they attempted to cripple the giant knight. But he was well protected.

A startled cry escaped her lips and Frances stumbled on her knee, lifting the shield upwards. Something was wrong with her leg! Tristan snarled as his fellow knights gasped, knocking several arrows, viciously piercing through the Saxons that had dared attacking her. And then came the last blow of Dagonet's axe, effectively shattering the ice in a mighty crack that propagated at a tremendous speed.

— "The ice is breaking!" called a voice in Latin from the other shore.

A traitor. Bloody traitor! Tristan swore that he would get the man and make him pay, his hands tightening on the bow. And then, the unthinkable happened as the lake collapsed. Frances slid soundlessly across the ice, disappearing into its dark waters. Arthur sprang forward, running at full speed, and it was all Tristan could do to continue firing. His feet itched to join him, his heart leaping in his throat, his mind reeling with terror. But they needed his accuracy to cover them, else nor Dagonet nor Arthur would stand a chance. Frances was lost … lost in the depths of an icy lake, saving his brother from a dire fate. The pain was crippling, so unexpected that his arrow missed, hitting legs instead of a chest. Tristan huffed, and continued firing, his heart bleeding, his breath short.

Arthur was kneeling now, pulling at Dagonet's legs like a madman, his own shield propped up to protect his head. His commander managed to drag the bigger knight on the ice, and with him, came a slender form with soaked reddish hair, her wrist safely enclosed in Dagonet's right hand. Lancelot yelled to fall back, and Tristan refrained from slapping him hard. What did he think they were doing, having tea? His arrows flew, lethal, embedding themselves without failing into sweet flesh, dealing death without mercy. Maybe all hope wasn't lost then. Soon enough, all the Saxon archers had plunged into the icy tendrils of the lake. They were out of danger, but the leader was unharmed. Tristan sent him a hard look, carving his face into memory. Payback would be sweet. Dagonet was now standing, limping slightly, his upper body drenched. In Arthur's arms rested Frances, unmoving, her form limp and so diminutive in his commander's embrace that he wondered if she was already dead.


	16. Stitches ! - Reviewed

Cold. She was freezing inside, so cold that the rest of the world seemed warm. Tetanized, her limbs refused to move as she was carried in a hurry. For a moment, she couldn't discern if she'd died underwater, or if the mumbled words of Arthur were real. The grip of ice had nearly caused her heart to stop. Thankfully, the giant knight had fished her out before the lake had swallowed her entirely. A gentle voice tried to call her back, Arthur's. A hand on her frozen brow, Dagonet's. Desperate brown eyes, the golden hue hiding a world of sadness. Tristan's gaze, fixed upon her, his mouth set in a grim line. Eventually, Frances was settled on a blanket on the ground, warm blood seeping from her leg wound. Her whole being started to shake uncontrollably, so much that Dagonet called for someone to settle her leg. Arthur's unyielding grasp held her thigh as she mumbled about having to sew another pair of breeches. God! she was pissed. And not really coherent. A dagger sliced through the fabric of her pants, and Dagonet stated.

— "It needs stitches."

— "No," she moaned.

Arthur smiled at her reassuringly.

— "Do not worry, lady. Dagonet is pretty good at sewing people up."

Damn, they didn't understand. Stitches would have to be removed, and it was fragile as hell. She wouldn't be able to fight if needed, it'd be a mess. Trembling like a leaf, she protested.

— "No stitches … cauterise"

— "No"

The tone was final, coming from behind her. So close that her chest vibrated with the strength of its conviction. Unfortunately, Frances was too tetanized to turn around, and her mind too fuzzy to realise who had popped her against him. Above her, the knights stared in horror, hardly believing her request. The bolt had grazed the skin quite deeply, cauterising would leave a heavy scar. And the process was insanely painful. Frances lifted her head, and stared at her thigh, assessing the damage herself. It was the exact same spot she'd been sliced open during Helm's deep fight. With the cold numbing her leg, though, she nearly didn't feel the pain.

— "Damn it, not again!" she cried. "Does it say, 'please slice me here?'"

Her words were slurred through clenched teeth, but the relief on the knights' faces showed their concern. Galahad, for one, stifled a laugh.

— "What do you mean? You have no prior scar here," commented Dagonet.

True. She'd forgotten how all her scars had disappeared after coming back to earth, the miracle of the molecular destructuration and reconstruction of her body through the Valar's portal.

— "Never mind," she mumbled through shattered teeth. "Quantum physics. Come on, do it quick while I can't feel."

Dagonet nodded, his thread and needle at the ready. He shut out the rest of the conversation as he worked, marvelling that indeed, Frances didn't seem to feel the pain.

— "She doesn't make sense," came Bors' voice.

Frances eyed him warily, her mouth running once more without a filter. Her limbs were so frozen that she wondered if they were still attached to her body.

— "Yeah. Einstein and relativity are not a concept yet. Not that it relates with Quantum physics, mind you."

— "We need to catch up with the wagon," said Gawain, unfazed. "She needs a shelter from the wind."

But Bors had other ideas.

— "Should we give her a token? Against bad spirits. Clearly her mind is clouded by a lake demon, hear what she rambles about?"

Frances shook her head vehemently, the knight's word sending her brain into panic mode.

— "No, no and no. I'm just in shock. Let's go"

Behind her, a warm body prevented her from standing up, holding her against his chest. The water from her soaked tunic and cloak was seeping through his garb.

— "New clothes," she stuttered through shattering teeth.

— "She's right," came the smooth voice behind her. "She'll freeze to death if she keeps this on. And so will you Dagonet"

— "Our spare is in the wagon."

— "Don't care," Frances uttered.

Right now, survival was the key. To hell with modesty. Frances tried to get some warmth back into her arms to surrender them to her will. Once her fingers claimed their presence, she suddenly reached for her tunic and pulled it over her head. Forgetting that her cloak was still clasped at her throat, she got tangled in the mess of damp cloth. Horrified, the knights could only stare as her body was revealed, sports bras the only thing left on her. Arthur, who clung to her leg to ensure Dagonet's stitches would hold, turned beet red as Guinevere's laughed. Fortunately, Frances's head was stuck inside her tunic, and she missed the shades of her companions as her stiff muscles struggled to get free. Gentle hands unclasped the leaf broch that held the cloak, and freed her from her soaked tunic. Then, they rolled her into a warm crimson cape. In the meantime, Dagonet had miraculously finished his suture.

— "There. I'm done. The bleeding has stopped, and the stitches should hold."

— "Damn! Stiches!" she cried out, exasperated.

Dagonet stood, storing his supplied in the saddle bag. When he turned back to her, his blue eyes were earnest, his compassion stunning her.

— "Frances. It won't scar so much, and I cannot inflict that pain. Don't ask me too"

— "Well, thank you anyway," she grumbled.

— "It is who thank you. You saved my life," came the knight's quiet voice.

Frances nodded.

— "And you mine. Let's call it even"

Arthur turned his deep gaze to her, setting her up on her feet.

— "I can never thank you enough for your quick wit and courage. You are a lady knight now, one of us."

The statement caused Frances to blink back tears, holding the crimson cloak close to her chest. A Roman cape, his. The title stunned her. As hands grabbed her from behind, the silky voice sent shivers through her spine.

— "A frozen lady knight. Come"

Frances could only surrender to Tristan's will as he set her up on his mount. Climbing behind gracefully, the young woman could only remember how difficult this move was – a souvenir of Aragorn's rescue – , as how effortless it seemed to be for him, before his arm snaked around her waist.

— "You need body warmth," he simply stated.

And she nodded, too tired to protest about the situation. His body was hard behind her, muscles taut from the effort of holding her up. Yet, the warmth that seeped through her back comforted her, his scent of earth and horse strangely soothing, his touch gentle. The same he bestowed upon Lady Hawk when he ruffled her feathers. They rode in silence for a little while, an unsettling void stating that Tristan had something on his mind. She could almost feel it, the weight of his thoughts hanging above her head, and she wondered idly when his silences had become so eloquent. When at last he spoke, his voice was low, directed to her only.

— "Don't do it again, eh ?"

It was the first time his command came out as a plea, but Frances understood his meaning well enough. Her placement in the line of fighters on the lake, beside Dagonet, went against his wishes. Her vision, kept to herself. She had left Tristan out of the loop, and marveled that he wasn't mad at her altogether. If her assessment of his character was accurate, the scout hated loosing control more than eating dirt. But she didn't regret her decision; what could possibly have more worth than one life saved ?

— "I do what I have to do", she answered evenly.

There was challenge in her voice, the warning of the Keeper of Time stating that, no matter where her affections lay, she was the one and only judge of her own actions. Not that she didn't value Tristan's opinion, far from it. He had invaluable knowledge about this place and its workings. But the Valar had chosen her, Frances, to act upon her instincts and decide her own path. Knowing what she did about the future, she couldn't afford to stray from destiny. Her heart was her main lead; she wouldn't back down or bow to any warrior, any king. She never had, she never would.

Tristan's body tensed even further, the hand on her waist shifting a little. She would have given the world to know the thoughts that plagued his mind in this very moment. Would he lash out, telling her she was an infuriating woman, and leave her to be carried by someone else ? Frances' heart sunk. Exhaustion washed over her, she didn't want to move a muscle, let alone trudge in the snow to get behind another knight. Her thigh muscles were screaming bloody murder after the mad chase of the latest days, her whole body shivering, teeth shattering whenever she stopped controlling her jaw. No. The space of his arms was the best place in the world right now… and he was warm. But then, his fingers splayed over the crimson cape, pulling her further back in a tender gesture.

— "A little warning next time, eh ?"

Peace. He'd offered an olive branch when she expected scorn and anger. Too happy for her own good, Frances nodded.

— "Fair enough. This I can do"

And her head came to rest against his broad shoulder, tension leaving her body as she reclined against him in happiness. Within moments, Frances was asleep, passed out from the shock.

Buried under blankets in the wagon, Frances had yet to open her eyes. Arthur frowned once more; he would have no peace until she answered his questions. After hours of following along the coast, his memory had replayed the battle a thousand times, and something had spooked his tactical mind. Now that he could think clearly – the blasted weather was milder and Saxons drums quietened – he wondered how Frances has reacted so quickly. It was as if she'd known all along that Dagonet was going to be in danger. For the moment though, he could only speculate. His questions to Tristan had only elicited raised eyebrows from the scout, and a stern look. If his brother knew something, there'd be no torture device nor reasoning to make him spill it.

— "Ask her" was his only reply.

And so they waited as their caravan progressed slowly. And when eventually a fever claimed Frances, Arthur could only bristle in the saddle, praying to his God, to her gods, to anyone that would listen. At last, the lady seemed to regain consciousness, and the first sight that greeted her was Lancelot's playful smile as he told her.

— "You know, you're the only woman that shies away from me and gets Tristan to talk to you. You're weird"

Her laughter rose in the sky, so genuine that it made him smile.

— "He doesn't, you know. Talk to me"

At this, she tried to prop herself up, wincing as she did, and looked for the scout. Tristan was not far from sight, and their gazes locked for a moment, a silent conversation that confirmed her claims. There was a glint in his eyes, a small quirk of his lips, nearly imperceptible, addressed to her. Yes. Tristan didn't speak, not through words. But they could hold a philosophical debate without uttering a single sound. She could have been good for him, this woman. Mayhap she'd be willing to stay once this mess was over, after all, it was not often his scout agreed to be tamed. The matter of her betrothed, though, had yet to be sorted. And for the moment, the commander needed answers. Taking advantage of the flat terrain, he spurred his horse forward and reached the wagon.

— "Lady knight"

The title brought light to her countenance; a title well deserved.

— "Commander"

— "Something has been plaguing my mind ever since the battle. I wish you could put my thoughts to rest."

— "That was a lovely and very polite introduction, Athur Castus. I almost feel like I could be holding court."

Her sarcasm took him off guard. Beside him, Lancelot couldn't hold a chuckle.

— "Shoot," she added, seeing his crestfallen expression. "What do you want to know?"

— "Without you, I fear we might have lost Dagonet."

— "I'm quite convinced as well, yet it doesn't seem like a question."

Well. That was something he wasn't expecting. False modesty should have been the norm, not bluntness. Yet, she didn't gush, or boasted, only stating the facts. Not unlike a certain scout.

— "I only wished to convey my gratitude."

The cheeky little creature had to gall to send him an amused look.

— "Ah. But you've done so already."

This game was getting to him; it took his mind off the gloom of the Saxon invasion. Hence his deadpan reply.

— "I wished to renew it."

— "And?"

Silence. She knew he wanted more. There was no way to get around it. Somewhere behind the wagon, Tristan's eyes were glinting with mischief. He enjoyed putting him on the burner as much as she did. Those two would be the death of him.

— "How did you know?"

Frances seemed impressed by his statement rather than affronted.

— "You are rather observant, especially since you were quite busy shooting a bow."

— "So, you did know?"

Something akin to fear flashed through her eyes before she answered.

— "I did."

— "How? Please, do not be afraid of telling me."

Frances sighed, her gaze returning to the blankets.

— "I saw him fall, two bolts across his chest, taking a dive when I crossed the lake before the battle. I knew it was only a matter of time before he put himself in harm's way"

Lancelot's voice was a but a whisper.

— "A seer?"

Frances turned to the first knight, and for once, there was none of her usual playfulness as she stared squarely into his dark eyes.

— "Aye, somewhat," she answered. "Albeit I don't get many visions, I am sometimes granted a little knowledge. I'm getting better at understanding them, at least"

Tensing, she then turned to Arthur, her eyes holding the fear at bay.

— "Will you have me burn as a witch now?"

Arthur's eyebrows nearly reached his hairline, contemplating the enormity of her words. Was she afraid he'd killed her in the name of religion? He was a Christian, for sure, but his mother's people had taught him otherwise than to demonise the old ways.

— "Nay. My mother's people have seers, and magicians, and it is part of who I am. And you are a lady knight, now. You deserve praise, not death"

Frances nodded, her posture deflating slightly; his acceptance meant the world to her! She only hoped that the others – all of them – would be as open-minded as the commander. Surely Sarmatia had shamans and seers as well? In her mind ran the legends of King Arthur and his mighty knights. This could very well be the beginning of Arthur's long reign, bringing the reunification of Christianity and ancient knowledge. The only way to rally the Britons under one banner.

— "You will make the hell of a King," she stated. "And now, if you don't mind, I'll get back to my feverish sleep. Such a great perspective!"

King? Was it a seer's vision, or something else altogether? Arthur's eyes roamed her face, the flushed cheeks and bright eyes. She was right, she needed to rest. And he knew a dismissal when he heard one; even though he was the commander. Her authority and the words she had spoken were enough to send his mind reeling.

Behind the wagon, a very silent scout mused on her revelations. It certainly explained her strange behaviour while crossing the lake. A smile quirked his lips upwards. He understood now, her choice of placement in the line of warriors, and even more why her attention was solely focused on Dagonet. She'd been watching, devising on her strategy, and building up a countermove to save his brother. And managed when he would have accepted death. Smart woman. His heart was at peace now, even if, when his eyes closed, the sight of her slender silhouette disappearing through the ice would haunt him for a while.


	17. Bors - Reviewed

**_So there we go, Bors' point of view over the recent events. I hope you enjoy taking a little peek into his mind, I had a lot of fun writing it. This chapter is short... Bors is a not a man of many words :p_**

Weary, but proud, Bors rode silently beside the wagon who held Dagonet and the young lady who had saved his life. For there was no doubt in his mind, not even one. If the lass had not sprung forward like a devil out of a box, Dagonet would be a pincushion feeding the sodding fishes that resisted this bloody winter icin'!

But his cousin was alive, resting from his dive into the lake, his eyes half closed as he watched over the little lady. A crazy one, this kid. As quick on her feet as with her wit. Bors berated himself for not reacting when Dagonet ran to his certain death, intend on sacrificing himself to get them all to safety. That idiot! What a low blow to his pride that this mere slip of a girl had protected Dagonet in his place. She had sunk under the ice without a wave, and had more trouble recovering from the cold than Dag. Her lips were now a healthier shade of rose because they had buried her under a mountain of blankets. If she was strong enough, she would survive.

And to protect her, Bors had just found the thing she needed in his saddlebag. When she had emerged from the lake, he was sure that evil spirits had got to her. She had been rambling, inconsistent, speaking of 'fisic' or whatever. Nowhere near those educated nonsense lessons Arthur sometimes told them, or the old preceptors had bored him to death with – in his youth. No. It was more … like her mind was leaking through her ears. A water spirit, angry that it couldn't keep her in its clutches after she had deprived him of Dagonet's life.

But the amulet should do its job, right? Brushing his thumb over the carved piece of reddish wood, Bors debated whether it could help her or not. The fish and waves had been carved by a weird elder from a nearby village – possibly a shaman. A present from a family he had saved a long time ago meaning to bring good luck when fishing; Bors had not refused although he avoided rivers and lakes like the plague. He didn't know how to swim. His tribe had lived more than four hundred leagues from the seashore. Or so Arthur said. He had never been able to wrap his head around maps anyway.

The little lady needed it more than he did. Perhaps she could go fishing afterwards … with the bloody scout!

Bors dismounted gracefully – his sheer bulk hiding powerful muscles – into the wagon. Dagonet lifted his glazed eyes in interrogation and he waved the amulet before his eyes. His giant cousin only nodded before he retreated into his less than peaceful slumber. Of all of them, Dag less inclined to believe in old wives' tales and magic. But at the moment, it seemed he couldn't care less. Bors knelt before the young woman. Was she sleeping, or unconscious? Sweat trickled around her temple, her reddish hair a mess of plastered strands, dark circles under her eyes that contrasted with her pale face. The battle of her mind against the evil spirit.

Bors gently touched her head; she didn't react.

— "There, there, littl' un, I got something that'll help ya"

A pair of piercing eyes landed on him, a gaze so intense it could have stopped the faintest of hearts. Tristan watched him, daring him to make a wrong move. Bors almost snorted at the challenge; his hands only wandered around Vanora's body. He could be a dirty pig, but he loved his woman and would never touch another. And even if Frances was a redhead, she was a child. No one was worth his 'nora. Her hips widened by their children, her bosom … mmm. He couldn't wait to get into her bed again.

Glaring right back at the scout, Bors passed the leather cord of the amulet around the kid's head, letting the carved wood rest on her blanketed chest. He tapped it gently, mumbling a 'there, there'. As he mounted again, Bors caught Arthur's curious eye. By now, he knew the commander would not frown upon his pagan faith; no matter his Christian beliefs, Arthur believed in genuine care above all else.

— "To chase the evil spirits," he grumbled, ignoring Lancelot's smirk.

Arthur nodded, the lines of his face weary. They were all spent to the bone with this bloody mission. But it could have been worse, and thanks to the kid, Dagonet was still alive to receive his papers from the tight-assed Roman. Bors smiled. He couldn't wait to get drunk and take a tumble with Vanora! Smiling widely, he spurred his horse to a canter and passed the scout, sending him a grin.

Tristan's mask didn't falter, yet his eyes burned under the disarrayed stands of his tousled hair. Bors felt his gaze boring holes in his back a mile away. What was it with the bloody scout? Had his hand nipped by the blasted bird of his? Where was it anyway? Lifting his eyes to the sky, the knight could barely distinguish the faint black dot that circled them from above. No matter his feelings on the matter, he had to admit that the Hawk was a faithful one. And she liked the little lady too, just like its master. How Frances had managed to defrost the stern scout… Bors had no clue. The truth was that Tristan seemed to take her protection very seriously, as well as her virtue. Perhaps she reminded him of a little sister…

Bors smirked, remembering Tristan's sneer to his earlier taunting. The scout wasn't too easy to rile up, usually keeping a straight face for insults that would send Galahad into a duel … or a pissing contest. But this morning, he had managed to nip at the scout's façade… Teasing about women usually did the trick; he had a proud streak, their wild Tristan!

_The little lady's lips were blue. Poor kid, taking a dive in the lake. Bors shuddered. Better she than him but still … she had saved Dagonet's life so he should show a little more respect. Wrapped in Arthur's cloak like a bundle, she slumbered against the scout. At the beginning, she mumbled things in a language he didn't know. Not that he knew many. Latin, good enough. Sarmatian, and a little Briton, just enough to get served in the tavern and treat Vanora properly. Bors wasn't one for languages and scholarship and all that shit. He was a man of action, and damn, he had seen some the previous day!_

_The little lady didn't move now, but her lips were still blue. Did Tristan bring enough body warmth to make her better? Perhaps he should take her instead; he was far meatier than the scout after all. It was the least he could do after she had saved Dagonet's life._

— _"I can take her," he told Tristan, holding his hand out._

_The scout glared at him as if he'd grown two heads, his hand tightening around the young lady._

— _"She needs someone bigger to make her warm. You ain't eating that much."_

_Somewhere I front of them, Gawain swallowed a laugh, his shoulders shaking. Poke a cave bear in the ribs and see if he retaliates. Bors nearly sniggered when Tristan only grunted a no; he had called the scout 'small' and told him he was badly suited to make a lady warm. The greatest of attacks on one's virility. Any other knight would have punched him now, but Tristan only stared ahead._

— _"Is she even alive?" He asked_

_This time, Tristan's head snapped to him, his glare so murderous that Bors' horse sidestepped to shake the tension away. The knight lifted his hands in surrender._

— _"How d'ya even know, uh?"_

_The scout's smooth voice was as even as usual when he said:_

— _"Her heart beats."_

_Incredulous, Bors laughed, his eyes travelling across the bundle of red fabric where only a head emerged … and boots, further down. He could clearly see Tristan's left fingers on the reins._

— _"Where's your other hand, uh?"_

_The scout growled this time, the sound so alike a mewling wildcat before it decided to attack._

— _"If you don't shut up, I'll emasculate you before we reach the fort."_

_Tristan's voice didn't rise over his usual tone, but the threat was there. Hanging between them like a sword of … bugger, he couldn't remember the name. Bors shook his head in mock dismay, such great words. Nor Gawain not Lancelot were around to have a go at the scout. Too bad, they would have enjoyed it; it was not so often Tristan took the bait._

— _"Vanora will have your head."_

_Dark eyes found his, partially hidden behind a warrior's braid._

— _"I'm not afraid of her. Unlike some"_

_Ouch. This insult touched close to home … he wasn't afraid of his little flower, no. But sometimes … sometimes Vanora was downright scary, and better take cover rather than face her. Bors shrugged. Well, the scout was itchy. As bone-weary than any of them, his ass probably hurting from days in the saddle. But they would get their freedom, they were all alive and ready to get drunk to death, and he couldn't wait to recount the tale to his brothers and the little lady at the tavern. If she survived._

_Bors did a double take at the pale face engulfed in the great crimson cape, her body held tight against the scout's. From the looks of it, she didn't seem too peachy. Perhaps she wasn't strong enough after all; her wrists were so tiny. Would they bury her in the little cemetery? Nah. She was a kid, kids had plenty of energy to spare. His littl' ones sometimes burned up with fevers, and they always pulled through and ran about as if it was nothing. Unless she was battling evil spirits…_

— _"Tristan?"_

_This time, the scout didn't even bother responding, a huff his only indication that he had heard him. His muscles were probably getting stiff from holding her up on the saddle. Stubborn fool, stranded beside him until they reached the wagons, or he couldn't hold her anymore an admitted defeat. What pride could bring a man to do!_

— _"That ramblings she was saying, d'ya think she was grabbed by a spirit of the lake? D'ya think we should…?"_

— _"What?"_

_Damn, he really was pissed. Better to say it._

— _"I have this talisman villagers gave me, for protection. I can give it to her."_

_Tristan seemed to reflect, his long unkempt hair shielding his eyes from view. The tattoos upon his cheekbones marked him with their tribes' beliefs. Out of them all, he was the most attuned to nature – its beasts and its spirits. Son of a shaman, they said he was. Not that he spoke of his parents anyway. Surprisingly, Tristan nodded and Bors released the breath he had not realised he was holding. Damn, aside from Vanora, the scout really could instil terror in a man. He had this weird presence that told him that, yes, he probably had some connection with the spirit world._

— _"It's with my stuff, in the wagon. I'll get it when you put her down."_

— _"Aye."_

_Happy that they had come to an understanding, Bors' eyes roamed the little lady and her knight in shining armour._

— _"So … how much clothing does she have left under that cloak?_

_The glare that Tristan sent him would have sent the Saxon cower at their mother's feet. Laughing, Bors scurried away from the fearsome scout. _


	18. Freedom ! - Reviewed

**_Hey ! So this chapter is reviewed at last, hence a tad longer. To all the newcomers to this story, please take the time to leave some comments and reviews. Even if you feel like this story had not been updated for a while, and it is an old stuff. It never is. A story is always alive in an author's mind, and we always want to know what you like and don't like when you read. So don't be shy ! About 6000 people have read this story since it was started, and see the number of reviews ?  
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**_So tell me... too realistic ? Not enough ? Dynamic between characters, battles, ... anything ! Just let me know._**

The next time she awoke, Frances found a weird necklace resting on her chest, some kind of figure carved out of dark wood. To fend off evil spirits, had explained the Pict lady, a token from the knights who were quite superstitious. Her ramblings while feverish must have worried them. The pounding of her head indicated that she needed rest, but she didn't feel the annoying warm and cold waves of the previous day. The stitches of her leg, though, stung like bitch. If she didn't find anyone to cauterise it, she'd just have to remove them herself. Dagonet would not be pleased but hey, he owed her big time. As she owed him for pulling her out of the water.

Eventually, the wall was sighted. Cheers and cries erupted from the refugees and Frances desired to withhold Hadrian's rampart from the north. Tightening her elvish cloak, she emerged from the wagon only to be loaded like a sack of potatoes behind Gawain. The stiches pulled and she winced, but the view was worth it; the was simply was impressive from this side.

— "An impressive sight, isn't it?"

— "Quite"

Beside them, Galahad snorted in disdain.

— "Yes. The best of jails"

— "And from tonight, a prison no more," stated Frances.

The steady voice of Gawain grumbled before her.

— "Who knows what the Bishop will pull out of his sleeve? I'll believe it when I hold the discharge papers in my hands."

She had to give him that; Gawain wasn't one to make pies in the sky. He was a down to earth person; a very valuable quality when you needed to survive fifteen years in the middle of a war.

— "I think Arthur will kill him if he doesn't surrender those blasted papers. "

Galahad sent her a pointed look, his clear eyes loaded with fury.

— "If he doesn't, I will."

— "I might help you with that. I absolutely loathe this toad head."

Both Galahad and Gawain sniggered at the nickname until a piercing cry called their eyes to the sky. Lady Hawk joined her master before the gates and Tristan, as was his wont, was the first to pass the huge doors. A large patch of deserted land greeted them before they engulfed below a second gate that led to the fort. The refugees dispersed in the streets with Ganis, while the knights took their mounts to the stables. Frances was relieved to penetrate in a rather quiet area; she hated the crowds nearly as much as enclosed spaces. Agoraphobia and claustrophobia, two of her faithful friends. The sight that greeted her, however, did nothing to lighten her mood. The Bishop stood there, all fake smiles and teeth, welcoming them as if he'd fought his way through an army of Saxons. "Enfoiré", she mumbled as Gawain lend a hand to help her dismount. The stitches of her thigh stung from the move, and she sighed dejectedly. She was quite accustomed to this very specific pain[1], the one of riding with a slice in her left thigh. Damn those Saxons! Damn the Orcs who had done it the very first time! The same spot anew, and damn her for having to ride afterwards! Granted, she could have stayed in the wagon. Her own logic didn't lift her mood as the Bishop came close.

Then he was blocked from view by a very familiar silhouette. A mane of shaggy hair, a tall stature, lean muscles hidden behind a leather cuirass. Tristan said nothing as he stepped in front of her protectively; Frances didn't need him to. His manner was so casual, but she knew he could turn lethal in less time it took to blink. Anywhere he went, the knight always observed his surroundings, the scout never rested, to ensure the protection of his fellow knights. She wondered if his companions had realised it, that even in places where it was supposed to be safe, like in the tavern, Tristan sat in a corner where he could surveil the area. And now that she was a lady knight, he protected her from the Roman's leery gaze. Was he even conscious of the fact?

The Bishop uninterrupted flow of words kept hurting her ears, his false contempt at granting their freedom making her blood boil. She wondered; had Dagonet perished at the lake if Bors would have killed the horrid man. And to be perfectly honest, she quite didn't give a damn. At last, the sickening character went to pester Alecto, and Frances considered it as her cue to leave. Tristan's hand landed on her arm, tugging at her sleeve to escort her to her room. Protection, once more, for a wounded comrade.

— "What a charming demon," she eventually stated once out of hearing.

Tristan's mouth quirked upwards in this private smile she now recognised, the line of his full lips hidden in the strands of his beard.

— "He will be gone soon," came his smooth reply.

Frances stopped in the corridor, stomping her foot like a child, and wincing because of the stitches embedded in her thigh.

— "Good riddance. Although I feel bad for Alecto."

— "The boy ?"

There was genuine surprise in Tristan's voice.

— "Yes. The kid looks … normal."

The scout raised his eyebrows, their faint lines lost in the shaggy fringes of his hair. He didn't need to ask her to explain as she caught his meaning. Such an incredible feat, how his silences meant a thousand different things. Two lines of white hair at the corner of his jaw gave his unkempt beard a fearsome appearance, but she knew better now. Behind the warrior, a passionate nature yearned to break free.

— "I mean. Compared to that old manipulative dog of a bishop, the boy seemed untainted somehow. And this whole mascarade of getting a family precious to the Pope can only be a lie"

Frances" word struck a chord in the scout; he neither had swallowed the easy lie they'd been fed, but politics were not his forte.

— "Explain"

— "If the Pope loved this godson so much, he wouldn't have left him into this hellhole, in enemy territory for so long. He would have kept him at hand, a fresh mind available for corruption. I can only surmise that Alecto was placed there to be away from the influence of Rome."

— "You think they fled?"

The young woman shook her head.

— "Cast out by peers. That would be the Roman's way"

And then, she started a poor imitation of the Bishop's sickly manners and falsetto.

— "I'll give you some territory, my dear friend, you'll see. Close to the sea, vivid weather, untouched mountains, paradise for you to settle"

Tristan nodded, slightly amused at the irony of her mimicked dialogue. It would certainly explain Marius' bitterness, and the revenge he exacted from pagans.

— "The fact that Bishop Germanus came in person to get him … well. It's like a game of power again. If the Bishop can gain influence over Alecto, and push him in the right direction, it would give him leverage against whomever he is struggling against. Pope, senator, whomever SPQR that has its hands in the apparatus of power."

— "The same people who cast the family in the north of Briton," he finished for her, seeing that she was rambling again.

Frances's shoulders were so tense that he wondered how she could breathe. Her explanation made sense, even if they had no proof of it. There probably was some underlying Roman conspiracy going on in the background, one he didn't care much about. Arthur, though, might still be affected by it and he surmised he would talk to him at some point. As they resumed their walking, Frances's shoulder sagged slightly, the limp becoming more obvious as her whole body relaxed. Tristan shuddered at the memory of the bolt that had embedded itself in her thigh; crazy woman, it was a wonder she wasn't dead. Oblivious to his musings, Frances was, once more, voicing her opinion rather forcefully.

— "Anyway. He's gone, and as long as I don't have to breathe the same air, he can go all the way to hell and back for all I care"

Tristan considered her tense jaw and angry gaze before his voiced his question.

— "Who so much hate?"

She sent him a look of disbelief.

— "He almost had all of you killed. Isn't that enough?"

— "Many people tried to kill me… I don't let it bother me"

What kind of an answer was that ? The young lady threw her hands in the air, exasperated by Tristan's thick skull.

— "That doesn't make it all right, you know!"

Forcing the air of aloofness on his face, the knight bluntly stated the truth. His truth.

— "You've known us for less than fifteen days."

Her features softened, and she sent him a fond look.

— "I love both fiercely and easily, provided there is cause to. And once my affection is won, I protect the ones I care about. The Bishop was a threat to the knights."

Her words were like a punch in the gut, loaded with so many layers of implications that he wasn't sure he caught them all. She loved them. All of them! It was truly a wonder, how different they both were, yet so alike at the same time. He, for one, didn't love easily. Could he love, really ? But he protected those to whom he extended his care as fiercely as she did. At last, they came to Bors' room, and Tristan lingered a second in the doorway.

— "You know your way to the bath area, I suppose."

— "Yes, Sir"

Her eager tone made his eyes sparkle. Women and their washing!

— "One of us will escort you to the tavern for dinner. Don't roam the fort on your own, it is dangerous."

Frances frowned, annoyed that she wouldn't be able to wander alone.

— "Think I can't defend myself?" she challenged.

The knight sent her an unreadable look.

— "This place is very different from your home, Frances. Forget it and you'll die"

Miffed by his tone, she sent him a glare.

— "I'll bow to your wisdom, dearest knight."

Tristan snorted, disappearing down the hall, his steps so wide that most people would run to keep in stride. Frances closed the door, and crashed in bed for a few hours of restful sleep.

Purposeful knocks woke her up, and Frances nearly fell out of bed as she leapt forward, dagger in hand. Gods! Wasn't she antsy.

— "Who's there?" she asked.

— "Dagonet. I merely wished to have a look at your wound."

Frances hobbled to the door, her muscles stiff, and pulled the lock away with a clang. As the knight entered, he took in her disheveled appearance.

— "Did I wake you?"

— "You might have, yes."

His eyes roamed the upturned bed, finding the dagger in the midst of the sheets.

— "And you always sleep with a dagger under your pillow?"

— "When not at home, yes"

The older knight chuckled.

— "Tristan would be proud of you, but there's no need for such drastic measures. In the fort, there's no one but us."

Frances closed the door behind the knight, and added in a quiet voice.

— "No offence, Dagonet, but there's also that blasted Bishop, and he is one I cannot trust."

The knight nodded once. Considering she was a woman, it made sense to protect oneself from such men. Dragging her to the infirmary, the knight had the healer check on her stitches, and change the bandages before he led her to the bath room. There, he guarded the door, her mindful comments in mind, until she finished. It didn't take as long as he expected; she was a woman, after all, and injured. And the insane length of her hair should probably need ages to wash. When she emerged, however, the knight stifled a good-natured laugh. Once again clad in a man's garb, she had secured her wet hair into some sort of twisted bun. The circle under her eyes, though, seemed diminished, and her gait easier. Hot water could work miracles after a warrior's journey.

— "Yes, I know. No dress for Lancelot's sore eyes. Poor lamb"

— "I'm sure he will find plenty of amusement to console him."

— "Of this I have no doubt."

They made their way to the tavern, Dagonet descending the paved street slowly to match Frances' steps. Sometimes, she muttered curses under her breath, irked at being such a burden.

— "Do not worry, it will only take a fortnight before you are fully healed," he told her.

— "We don't have a fortnight, Dagonet. In three to four days at best, those Saxons will be upon us."

— "And we will be gone."

Frances bit her lips. She had no idea what came next, and since the necklace had not decided to send her home yet, it meant she still had a role to play.

— "I hope so fervently. But if not, I cannot fight with stitches. Still don't want to cauterise it for me?"

The tall knight sent her a worried glance.

— "No. And none of us will do it. The scar would be horrendous. And the pain … it would keep you from fighting as well. It is too late now."

— "Damn, you're right. I'll just have to rip them if needed. Yay!"

Her false enthusiasm sent a shiver down his spine, and Dagonet wondered what kind of woman would willingly inflict upon herself a horrible scar. He owed her his life, and wasn't about to complain on her weirdness. When you spent fifteen years fighting aside a man like Tristan, nothing seemed so weird anymore. Speaking of which, she was observing him, not unlike the scout used to do. As he caught her staring, she blushed prettily. So there was a girl hidden below the warrior after all!

— "So what does the ring mean?" she asked.

— "It is a family heirloom, my father gave it to me when I left. I had to wear it on a chain for years before it fit."

— "I gather your father was not a scrawny man."

At this Dagonet actually laughed.

— "I'm the smallest in the family."

— "Right. Good luck when you find a woman, that's going to be the hell of a family-in-law."

Her words made him pause. Now that he was free, he could consider taking a wife and having a family of his own. A whole world of opportunities had just opened up, and the woman by her side was the one who'd rendered it possible. If not for her, he'd be lying in a wagon, awaiting his burial in the cemetery where most of his brothers rested already.

— "Thank you," he said eventually, his eyes boring into hers. "Thank you for making this possible."

— "Thank you for dragging me out of the water, it was freaking cold down there!"

The knight didn't answer, slinging his arm over her slender frame in a gesture of companionship. Frances couldn't help but beam. The warmth of his embrace affected her greatly, and she was happy she'd managed to save him. Thank the Valar, she mouthed, for the vision. They were the last to arrive at the knight's tables, and a hot bowl of steaming stew awaited them. Lancelot's eyebrow lifted in annoyance at seeing that once more, another of his brothers had managed to approach Frances while she still shunned him. The others only turned surprised stares to them – Dagonet was usually a quiet man whose affections were not displayed in public – or, in the case of Tristan, an indifferent mask.

— "Had a nice evening?" Lancelot called to them as Dagonet settled in his seat.

— "Dagonet accompanied me to the bath house," she stated with a smirk.

Galahad gasped while Gawain laughed. But Lancelot… Lancelot's eyebrows had hit his hairline at Frances' bold implication. Her eyes were shining with mirth, challenging him anew.

— "Aaaw, is that true?"

The tall knight only nodded, frustrating Lancelot even more as he refused to take the bait. The dark haired womaniser then turned to Frances.

— "Come and sit by me, lovely lady," he coaxed gently.

But Tristan would have none of it, irked by Lancelot's remarks. In a swift move, he took hold of Frances's wrist and dragged her down beside him, the command irresistible.

— "Your bowl is here," he simply said, getting back to slicing his apple.

— "Thank you," came her soft words.

Tristan spared her a glance, showing her the bread to dunk in the stew.

— "Eat while it is warm."

— "Sir, yes sir!" she retorted playfully.

His lips didn't move, too busy munching on the slice of apple he'd just popped into his mouth. But his eyes held this slight twinkle of amusement, their corner scarcely shrinking, the wrinkles a little more pronounced. The evening was merry, the knight more intoxicated than ever. The stew has disappeared in Frances' belly in less time than it took to tell a story while Gawain, Galahad and Tristan had started a new competition of dagger throwing. The scout's eyes, though, were always moving around the place. If she followed, she could see the people he checked discreetly. A woman here, a peasant there, a drunk Roman eyeing them a with a little insistence. Even in the tavern, there was no peace for the wicked.

As she sat contentedly, Frances was suddenly assaulted by Vanora. The redhead fury launched herself on her, crushing her in a tight hug.

— "Thank you, thank you, thank you for saving Dagonet, lady knight. My Bors would have been sinister. He's like a brother to us"

Frances hugged Vanora back, surprised by the woman's tight grip upon her shoulders. How good it felt to be held by another woman, especially once as radiant and intense than Vanora. At last, the waitress let go and Frances smiled, slightly dazed.

— "As I told Dagonet, he saved mine, so we're even."

Vanora nodded, and dragged her to the bar when she started to recount many a tale about Arthur and his knights, most of them revolving around Bors and his antics. She came and went, speaking as she cleaned, never losing track of her story even if she served five rounds of tables. Frances laughed a lot, keeping her eyes on the knights who had dispersed in the tavern. Bors handled some of his youngest, under Vanora's tutelage, while Lancelot's lap was kept entertained by a wench. Galahad was now quite drunk, and Tristan had forcefully shoved him back onto the bench, and removed all pointy objects from the vicinity while the youngest knight pouted at him like a child to his father. Dagonet was watching the proceedings, hardly affected by the ale he kept drinking, his lips twitching whenever Gawain got pissed at Tristan for gutting his knives ass. Vanora's voice fluttered around Frances like a butterfly as it came and went.

— "Tomorrow, we'll celebrate their freedom. I'll do your hair, and lend you a dress, right?"

It didn't feel so necessary, but Vanora didn't seem the type of woman to whom you could say no. As she disappeared in the backroom once more, a hand landed on her backside. Goosebumps shot through her back as Frances whirled around; her dagger held out. A drunk man, about six feet tall, was leering at her suggestively. Dread filled her at once; if she was used to full-scale battles, she never responded well to sexual harassment.

— "Shnt y'a say no to d'dress, beautiful."

— "Your sentence is a grammatical disaster," she deadpanned.

Unfazed by her poised attitude and the dagger pointing at his throat, the guy slurred suggestively.

— "Don't matter, you wanna warm me bed, aye?" he added, bending closer to steal a kiss.

Was the guy absolutely suicidal? Hadn't he seen the company she kept? Smirking, Frances found hilarious to quote the fifth element.

— "Seno acta gamat"[2], she said, her dagger held in front of his nose.

The guy leered at her blade warily, obviously trying to charm her, and failing miserably.

— "Watdat language, wench?"

— "That means 'I'm not interested in tiny ones'. Now get out of my way before I serve your balls for dinner."

Gawain, who'd witnessed the whole altercation, was now roaring with laughter. He wasn't the only one. Vexed by her harsh retort, the man chose to attack instead of retreating nicely. He was so drunk that Frances sidestepped him, using a swift aikido move, easily sending him crashing to the floor. As soon as her attacker was on his feet, Dagonet had him in a choke hold. Frances frowned, uneasy about such violence, but the knight glanced at someone behind her. Turning around, Frances barely saw the knife disappearing in Tristan's sleeve before Dagonet's voice scolded the drunk. Panicking, she glared at the scout before returning her attention to the altercation.

— "Apologise to the lady knight," he grumbled.

A few contrite words escaped the poor man, and Frances nodded her assent to Dagonet before he was shoved back to the floor.

— "Get lost," punctuated Gawain with a mighty snarl.

The man scrambled to his feet and disappeared, leaving a very upset lady at the bar. Frances' legs felt like jelly, and she sent a grateful nod to Dagonet before sitting in her initial spot. Very soon, a brooding scout joined her. None of the knights asked her if she was all right; nothing had happened after all, except this hand on her butt. Of course, she should be all right. But fact was that … she wasn't.

She'd seen battlefields, and gone to war. But this everyday violence people were submitted to, she couldn't cope. Wenches had gone back to seducing; it was nothing more than a slight altercation to them. Not even a stabbing, or the ghost of a wound, let alone a dead body. No, nothing happened. Their kind died under the blows of vicious men, they were raped, or sold their bodies for coin. Men were killed for a disagreement, or a robbing. This fifth century … it was too harsh for her modern sensitivity. Eventually, Frances turned to Tristan, keeping her voice low so that it got lost in the noise.

— "Little fairy…"

— "You'd have killed him, right?"

— "Yeah. He deserved it."

Frances shuddered. She'd heard the voices, singing his ruthlessness in battle. But killing in cold blood, really?

— "For insulting me?

Tristan bent his head, his brown eyes holding her in their power.

— "He was going to rape you, Frances. I saw it in his eyes. He would have waited for you to go…"

The young woman paled, closing her eyes a second.

— "All right, all right. I see your point"

— "Good"

Frances' hands shook, and she hid them in her lap, thinking about Tristan's earlier warning. This world was very different from her own. Now, there were laws against rape, and prisons, and judgement. Here, and there, a woman was just good to warm one's bed, to be taken against a wall. Without a protector, she was at the mercy of any person stronger than her. She was lucky the knights watched over her, else her blade would be covered in blood. How could she convey her point without insulting Tristan?

— "Tristan" she started, taking a deep breath.

It was so rare that she pronounced his name, and the scout's attention rested solely on her. He could see her hands trembling below the table, and resisted the urge to take them in his own.

— "I wish…"

— "Yes"

— "I wish you wouldn't kill for me, please?"

Tristan held her gaze, seeing the uncertainty, the emotion swimming inside of her brown eyes. They reflected the light of the torches, sending flickers of gold to warm them up. No, he wouldn't promise such a thing. She was an idealist, and he would protect her from harm no matter what.

— "I'll kill if I have to."

Frances sighed, and sat straighter on the bench. Tristan braced himself from what would come next. Mayhap he'd better leave now; he could see her disagreement written plainly of her features. The occurrences where she went against him were scarce, she dared not to as she rightfully feared his anger. But this … this was close to her heart, and he decided he wanted to hear it nonetheless.

— "I don't kill outside of battle, you know. Defending myself when there is no other choice is difficult enough. Killing someone for an insult, or an act he didn't commit yet would make me akin to our creators. Who am I to decide if a man must die or not? What he was a good son, a good father? Maybe he was dear to someone?"

His jaw tightened, his fingers curling in distaste.

— "And what about you, whom he would have raped, maybe killed without a second thought? Do you not have dear ones as well?"

— "I…"

No response, typical of a damn woman ! His temper rose and he stood so suddenly that Frances almost fell backwards. How dare she judge him, she that had only fought half of a battle? He knew he was unfair, he knew of her suffering, he'd seen it in her eyes. But now that cold-blooded rage had a hold on him, he only knew to lash out.

— "That man was a good for nothing and you're a damn sentimental woman, like Galahad!"

And then, he stormed off, his long strides bringing him to the wall where Lady Hawk would keep him company for the night. Isolde – he had named her, but never told a soul – wouldn't lecture him about his killing habits. Frances watched his retreating back with regret. Her judgement, perhaps, would need revision. Still, she could never accept that a friend would kill for her, not when another solution existed. A warm hand landed on her arm; Dagonet's serious face watched her intently.

— "Give him some time. He'll come round"

— "Thank you, Dagonet. For … everything"

The knight nodded. She certainly hoped he was right, for she feared losing the understanding of the scout. Such a short time in the company of this intense man, but he had won a special place in her heart. Gawain was dozing off in the arms of a wench across the table. Beside him, Galahad was glaring daggers at the empty spot Tristan had just vacated. He'd probably heard the scout's last comment.

— "Don't mind this loner, Frances. He's always looking for a fight," he slurred drunkenly.

Lifting her eyebrows in surprise, the young woman wondered what Galahad had in mind.

— "Uh?"

— "Damn scout"

His name was spat with such contempt that her blood boiled. Her voice was cold when she addressed the younger knight.

— "You are blinded by our anger, Galahad. Tristan had been protecting you, and you can't even see it."

He had the gall to snort! Standing so suddenly that she pushed the bench out with a mighty screech, Frances slammed her hands on the table, eyes akin to a storm. Gawain sat straighter, much more alert than the minute before, while Galahad's mouth failed to close.

— "Don't you see the risk he takes every single fucking day to see you safe? All of you?" she added, pointing at the remaining knights. "Even here, in the tavern, he's surveilling the place. Have you seen the drunk Roman who's been stealing glances at the tables with a sombre expression? The merchant that came, his hand concealed in his pocket? Did you notice them? Well, he did. And kept his eyes on them until he was sure they posed no danger to you all"

Gawain's blue eyes dawned with some sort of understanding. He had no idea what went on in Tristan's head, but Dagonet send him a knowing look. Apparently, the silent knight had also noticed where the scout's eyes roamed.

— "Ugh!" came Galahad's exasperated response, his arms shooting in the air. Wanna marry him or what? Ouch!"

A mighty slap from Gawain's hand earned him a glare.

— "Galahad !"

Dagonet's warning didn't go unnoticed and Frances lifted a hand to let him know she would handle it. Her voice stern, she stood tall.

— "You know where my heart lies, young knight. No more of this."

— "Don't call me young when you look like a maiden yourself! I am merely a year younger than you are."

— "And acting like a child!" came Gawain's chastising voice.

Frances sent him such a glare that he recoiled.

— "Be thankful I don't box hears"

Suddenly, all spite fled Galahad as he slumped on the bench.

— "Why are you defending him, Frances? You are so nice, and he…"

Fire shone into her eyes as she clenched her jaw.

— "Because he is worth it, damn it! Be warned. I won't have you soil a friend's name, nor his intentions."

— "Sorry," the young man eventually mumbled.

Frances moved from her seat to settle beside the knight. As she started into his incredible bluish eyes, she could fathom all the sadness and pain forced upon a boy too young to handle it.

— "I'll all right," she told him quietly. "I know of your pain."

Galahad's sank on the table, mumbling inconsistent nothings. Hesitantly, Frances stroked at his hair, hands gentle.

— "Feels good" he slurred as she chuckled.

— "You have lovely eyes Galahad. You'll make a woman weak in the knees someday", she told him.

The drunk knight barely lifted his head from the table, groaning a falsely cheerful answer.

— "'Ere 'ere, see what she says."

Gawain chuckled by his side, his blue eyes slightly veiled from the sheer amount of alcohol he had consumed, but not as drunk as he should be. Suddenly, Galahad circled her waist with his arm and Frances started, slapping his hand.

— "Hey ! It doesn't mean anything else."

His muffled voice barely reached her ears.

— "So, don't want to share my bed ?"

Frances laughed this time; it would feel so wrong to sleep with Galahad. He felt like a little brother. Yuck !

— "Nope, you're too young for me"

— "How old is your betrothed ?", Gawain asked.

Frances froze, the reality of Legolas' nature slamming into her. Despite the rowdy atmosphere and untamable knights, she realized she was getting used to it. Away from Aragorn, the future king with elven ways, away from Greenleaf whose light and manners could brighten the darkness of Khazad-dum, Frances had adapted to her new environment. It didn't mean she liked it; the untidiness, the children being beaten, women mistreated, the horrible ways Romans held sway over other people's lives, the harshness of disease and death… the man who would have raped her readily. Still… she wasn't discontent. And somehow, deep inside her, in unsettled her. Was she that volatile ? So unfaithful to elvish customs ? Had she disregarded entirely Tristan's warning ?

— "Frances ?"

The young woman blinked, her chest strangely hollow. How old was Legolas already ? She just had no clue. More than five hundred, less than three thousand.

— "Uh ? Oh. Er. I don't know exactly."

Galahad' slurr saved her from elaborating, earning a chuckle from the others.

— "Don't care"

A meaningful look passed between Gawain, Dagonet and herself. Galahad's fits of anger spoke of deep, raw pain that they could not heal. But the touch of a mother might very well bring him a little peace, and so she kept roaming her hands into his hair, whispering that he was safe, and free now. Eventually, a soft snore told her that Galahad has passed out.

— "Come, pup. Let's get you back to your room."

Fortunately, Dagonet was still sober enough – or remotely sound – to haul Galahad to his feet. Frances recoiled at the horrible smell of alcohol that she hated so much, and they departed to the knight's quarters. She, limping beside Dagonet who held a staggering knight. For a moment, they walked in silence as Galahad stumbled between them, half mumbling about one of the tavern wenches.

Frances rolled her eyes then. Women of pleasure. Suddenly, she felt like she couldn't stand this world' harshness anymore. Everything seemed so absurd, so pointless, so raw and so dirty. When Dagonet's voice rumbled by her side, she was nearly startled.

— "Tristan… he's realistic. Protecting Arthur and us."

The giant was a man of few words, and Frances nodded.

— "I know. I've seen how he watches your back"

But strangely, the conversation didn't die as Dagonet felt compelled to tell her more. And she wondered why the great giant had such a need to make her understand Tristan's nature. Not that she would complain about it; the scout puzzled her at best.

— "He wasn't always so stern."

This was a lifeline offered, and Frances took it eagerly. Since Dagonet seemed in the mood to speak, who was she to deny him ?

— "What happened ?"

Frances braced for impact… but it wasn't enough.

— "When Bedivere was wounded, he bled on the floor from a gash to his guts. We couldn't transport him, we had to run and he would have died a horrible death. He asked for Tristan to kill him."

Tears sprung to her eyes and she swallowed thickly, dragging her leg behind, hoping the pain would distract herself from the tightening of her chest. What could anyone answer to that ? Why had Tristan be subjected to killing his own brother ?

— "Why him ?", she stuttered.

— "Because he was his best friend."

So Tristan had a best friend. A double, just like Galahad had Gawain, Lancelot had Arthur, and Dagonet had Bors. Here he was, the faithful partner of the fearsome scout; the man supposed to understand and support him. Gone, killed by his own's friend hand. For she had no doubt that Tristan had done it out of honour; the most heart wrenching sacrifice.

— "I would have done it, since I am healer."

Frances nodded stiffly. Is that what being a healer entailed ? To be able to kill your patients in mercy ? Yet Dagonet went on, his piercing eyes boring a hole into her.

— "But Arthur couldn't have, none of the others would have. Tristan did it, and looked into Bedivere's eyes until his life ended. He was never the same after that"

— "I wonder why", she scoffed, barely refraining the sob that threatened to overwhelm her.

Such courage. Could she have done it ? Stared into her brother's eyes and killed him ? Stared into Aragorn's eyes and plunged a knife in his heart ? Into Legolas', or Elladan ?

Frances was glad that Dagonet remained silent as he carried Galahad to his rooms.

* * *

[1] See Innocence's journey

[2] When Korben kisses Leeloo to wake her up, she points her gun to his head saying "Seno acta gamat" which means "never without my permission".


	19. Of strategy - Reviewed

**_And another one, yay !_**

The knock on her door was followed by Jols' request that she broke her fast in Arthur's chambers. Startled, Frances dressed so quickly that her hair remained unbraided. She hastily rolled it into a bun, pinning it with a modern jaw clip. Mere moments later, Jols left her at the door of Arthur's much bigger chambers.

— "Thank you Jols" she told him with a genuine smile.

The squire's face brightened, and he bowed to her.

— "My pleasure, lady knight"

Frances watched his retreat; she liked the man, loyal to the core. There was a slight shuffling sound beside her before Arthur appeared by her side.

— "Come, Frances. Let us talk"

The young woman stepped inside the room, a little intimidated by Arthur's commanding presence. The intimate setting – his own chambers – did nothing to ease her running mind. His quarters were more spacious than her room, a nice fire blazing in the hearth bringing an orange glow to the sparse but beautifully carved furniture. Dark wood and elegant lines, a huge posted bed, a sturdy desk where Arthur spent, no doubt, far too much time. Frances's feet wandered a little, taking in the homely feel of his chambers, and Arthur let her do so. As her hand caressed a broken tile, the commander walked up to her. She could hardly ignore him; he towered over her as if she was a child.

— "Who is he?" she asked.

— "Pelagius. The man who taught me, and surrogate father."

The man who was murdered in Rome because of his political beliefs. Poor Arthur, yet another one to leave him. How lonely should a man be in this cruel world?

— "Oh. I'm sorry for your loss. I overheard what happened to him."

Arthur considered her earnest gaze, the gentle lines of her face. Why should he, commander of the wall, spill his deepest secrets and doubts to a young lady appeared out of nowhere? The answer was pretty simple. Because he trusted her, and he needed to. His knights, his brothers, his only family would be leaving in no time. And he didn't know what to do. Expectations were so high, and for once, he had no guidance. Were Pelagius's ideals still worth following?

— "His teachings have made me the man I am, but I cannot help but feel betrayed. My knights have been telling me, for years that the Rome I fight for did not exist. I dismissed it, thinking rancour spoke for them. You told me as such, I dismissed it anew, considering your youth and inexperience."

His earnest words didn't seem to alarm her, for she didn't lash out.

— "You were not entirely wrong, in both cases. What happened to change your mind?"

— "Alecto told me as such, once more. Pelagius was killed because of his thoughts on equality. And I, who believes in them, realise he was only an idealist, leaving me with a tainted view of Rome"

Frances cocked her head aside, reminding him of his scout's Hawk. He certainly harbored no love for this blasted bird. The lady seemed deep in thought, careful with her words.

— "If people had followed Pelagius, like you followed his beliefs, the world would be a better place. Believe me"

Arthur shook his head vehemently. There was sadness for his surrogate's father passing, and anger as well. Anger at being left behind once more.

— "Realism was absent of his teachings, and I sorely need it right now. It leaves me at loss."

— "Yeah. I have a friend that falls into that category; Daniel is the idealist, and we are the realistic ones that protect him. All great men must have their back guarded by friends. I sometimes wonder if one can do both, I don't think so. Still, it is sad for Pelagius. Another one that Rome has betrayed."

— "Yes. another one like Maximums Decimus"

Frances stiffened, and Arthur knew he had hit a nerve.

— "Who are you, Frances?"

The mask slipped on, her hazel eyes guarded as she took a step back. Gone was the easy-going woman, the compassionate heart. Now, he only faced an ice queen.

— "Whatever do you mean?"

Time was too short for games, and his mind had trouble wrapping itself around the strange idea that had been dancing for a while.

— "You spoke of Commodus"

— "What about him?"

It was all she could do to forgo the "son of a bitch" title she'd bestowed upon the Emperor.

— "There is a legend, in Rome, about a redhead witch that leapt into the coliseum to challenge Commodus. Alecto spoke about it as well when he saw you."

— "Neat"

There was a sparkle in her eyes, and a little amusement. Yet, she gave nothing away. Damn woman, nearly as difficult to read as his scout when cornered! Arthur took a steadying breath before plunging into deep waters. If his assumptions were incorrect, she'd be laughing at his credulity for a century. A Christian believing in pagans' superstition.

— "It was you, wasn't it?"

Frances knew not to try to dumb blond act, but her secret only hung by a thread right now. Her face brightened, her response strangely cheerful, hiding the hammering of her heart in her chest.

— "Can I lie to you?"

— "No", came his stern reply.

The young woman sighed. Of course, she couldn't.

— "All right, then. Yes, that was me."

For a scant moment, his mouth opened, and closed without a sound. Then, just a whisper as his hand lifted to touch her shoulder. Just to make sure she was real.

— "How?"

— "I'm the Keeper of time, sent by the Gods to help history unfold. And speaking of which, what can I do for you?"

The Keeper of Time ! So it was true ! Her casual dismissal sent Arthur in an abyss of considerations. Silence descended upon them, the crackling of logs in the hearth the only sound as Arthur took in the news. He didn't seem so petrified; maybe he'd been turning the notion in his head for a while.

— "I can't believe you witnessed Commodus' death."

— "My only regret is that I couldn't deal it to him. That man was a fucking bastard, believe me!"

There was so much anger in her voice that Arthur stiffened, nearly expecting an attack. The Keeper of Time, a messenger from the Gods. She'd told him so before their departure, but knowing about her presence in Rome three centuries ago gave another perspective to the notion.

— "I'm meeting Merlin today. He asked to see you, and I am starting to understand why."

The Woad leader's demand has seemed weird at first, albeit Arthur remembered Tristan's comment that the blue devils never approached Frances. Now, it was starting to make sense. Beside him, an unladylike snort interrupted his musings.

— "Merlin. Leader of the Picts. Not Walt Disney Merlin, right?"

Arthur gave her a puzzled looked, and Frances stifled the urge to laugh.

— "Sorry. Go on"

— "He asked for the red witch, the Keeper of Time."

Frances gaped, her hand flying to her chest in wonder. So the leader of the Picts knew about her existence. Who was the old chit?

— "You want me to come with you."

— "If it is agreeable."

— "And you trust him not to turn me into a toad?"

A faint smirk adorned Arthur's lips, giving him an almost boyish look.

— "I'll endeavour to negotiate appropriate terms" he deadpanned.

— "I hope you can forgive my bluntness…"

Could she, or not, ask the dreaded question?

— "I've suffered the knights' for fifteen years. There's probably nothing I haven't heard."

— "Never bet on that. Anyway, why should be abide to Merlin's wishes?"

His green gazed turned serious, determination written on his face. A shiver ran down Frances' spine, and she knew, that very instant, that things were going to change irremediably.

— "Because we need them to fend off the Saxons' attack."

Realisation dawned. Arthur. King of the Britons. Of all Britons, not only south of the wall.

— "You mean to stay and claim this land" she stated in awe.

— "Yes. I'm not leaving the country, and all those people to die. We cannot evacuate all of the Island."

There was not an ounce of hesitation in his voice, and she stared in awe as the commander Arthur Castus turned into the great leader he was meant to be. Then, a flicker of fear passed into his eyes, the fear of rejection, of her judgement. It was quite ridiculous, really, she was but a woman.

— "Super green", she uttered, trying to ease the tension.

The stupidity of her words – once more a reference to the fifth element – startled him.

— "I beg your pardon?"

— "It means 'Yay'. How did you get the news, by the way?"

— "That Merlin wanted to meet the Keeper of Time?

Frances nodded. The knight's freedom meant no more scouting trips for Tristan, and she hoped he was resting in his warm bed for once. Was he still angry about their discussion?

— "Guinevere came to me."

Shiver. Ugh! This day kept getting better. Frances tried not to grimace at the mention of that Pict slut.

— "I have to admit that I have some trust issues. Don't you?"

Arthur clenched his jaw, debating with himself if he should voice his concerns as well. He was not naïve enough to overlook why Guinevere seek him out. And for a reason he couldn't fathom, he trusted Frances to protect his interest.

— "Yes. But I do what I must for my people. Will you come?"

— "Yeah. Deal. But you owe me a super nice breakfast in return!"

This time, Arthur chuckled. That woman had a way with words, and her sense of humour was just what he needed before this day became very, very complicated.

— "Come, it awaits for you before the fire."

— "If you're nice with me, I'll share."

Startled by her cheek, the commander let out a hearty laugh. She was something, that red witch !

The wind was howling – as always – , the air freezing, and this meeting wouldn't finish. Of course, Picts being Picts, there were no tents to fend off the cold. Most of them were barely dressed, and Frances wondered at their ability to keep warm. Was it a new species altogether? Or was it the magic of their people keeping them alive? Or maybe they were like the Norse people; only the strongest survived infancy. An endless discussion and Frances was getting pissed. Merlin had greeted her warmly – an oldish man with a twinkle in his eyes that reminded her of Gandalf – but not said a word about the Keeper of Time. Yet. Beside him, Guinevere stood as a liaison. Now, they spoke of strategy, and alliances, all of it around a makeshift table created by a huge stump with one of Arthur's maps spread upon it. The wind had threatened to take the precious parchment away, hence all of them were bent over it, holding it down with their hands while the talks dragged on.

Frances, quite oblivious to the rest, studied the northern part of the island. It seemed rather wrong, the scale messed up somehow, and she wondered if the Romans had gone all the way around the Shetland islands and such. Her hands were frozen on the map, her fingers idly tracing the coast as it clashed with her memories. She was a map girl; geography agreed with her, and she with it. At last, one of Merlin's scout reported the approximate location of the Saxon army; so vague that Frances snorted.

— "That's it, you can't be more precise?"

Guinevere translated her incredulous words to the scout, who reported back in his language. Needless to say, that Frances didn't understand any of it. At last, the Pict woman turned to her, slightly irked.

— "We do not use horses as your people do, we refuse to tame beasts for us to obey. They are too far from us to reach in time"

Frances sighed, stealing a glance to Arthur's clenched jaw.

— "Where is Tristan when you need him", she commented tensely. "He is a man of few words, but he would have left no room for uncertainty."

A sharp pang of regret hit her at the memory of his angry steps the night before. Was his trust lost forever? The commander sent her an unreadable look, before quoting a Latin proverb.

— "Still waters run deep"

Frances caught his meaning. He, more than anyone, knew what loomed under the surface of his scout quiet ways.

— "Yeah. I bet deeper than the Marian trench."

Arthur dismissed her comment, failing, once more, to understand her reference. But since she seemed to be a time traveler, it made much more sense now.

— "So, how long?" asked Merlin.

— "Well. Depends on the scale of your map, right?"

Arthur nodded. When at loss of reliable information, calculating came second best. And so, they estimated roughly the time I would take for an army, that walked less than three miles an hour, ten hours per day, to cover the remaining distance. Needless to say, that the commander was impressed by Frances' flawless calculation skills. She took everything into account, from the fact that an army walked slower than an average man, and would need breaks, to the sinuosity of the paths when it came to walking uphill and downhill, compared to taking the main road. She applied coefficients here and there, adding the sum up in her mind, talking out loud as she went. Arthur could not have known that cartography was one of her favourite subjects in engineering school. Guinevere, across the table, sported a slight look of disgust that made him smirk. Yes. He had the hell of a counsellor to guide him.

— "So," Merlin concluded. "Two days, at best. We will prepare to second you in battle, Arthur Castus. Come, Frances, we must talk."

And so, Arthur watched Frances's back as the bearded sorcerer swept her aside. They walked for a while under the trees until Merlin turned to face Frances fully, and bowed his head.

— "Well met, Keeper of Time! I know who you are."

Frances frowned. How could a Pict possibly know of her? And his greeting had sounded terribly like the Sindarin words 'Mae govanen' translated into Latin.

— "How?"

Merlin's unsettling gaze fell upon her, and the young woman shivered at the raw power that oozed from his slender form. She could have sworn he'd not felt so bright a moment before; was he concealing his power from his own people ?

— "I have memories, from before."

Fantastic. She could play this little mind game all day, and it was already getting on her nerves. Tucking her hands into her pockets, Frances sighed.

— "From before … when?"

— "You are very curious."

Frances gave the man her most intimidating stare, vexed that he had the gall to chuckle.

— "Well, that's my job, to understand the stakes here. So?"

— "From before this flesh existence"

Suspicions arose in her mind, but the Keeper of Time knew she would get no more of him regarding this matter. So she attacked another angle.

— "Is that why you asked your men to spare me?"

— "Ah yes. I know your coming to be indispensable to help Arthur ascend to the throne of Britain. And I needed you to achieve this."

So he knew about the future, right ? How else would he gather that Athur should be King otherwise ?

— "Apparently, me and your daughter alike. I'm not too impressed by the way you are trying to manipulate Arthur through Guinevere. It is a low blow."

To her surprise, Merlin sighed, his shoulder bending a little in weariness. Suddenly, he seemed much older than before.

— "I know. I'm at the end of my existence, and there is still so much to accomplish. Arthur will be the beacon in the dark, and Camelot must rise. It is imperative lest this world be lost, and many others with it,"

Frances frowned. Many other worlds? As in other planets?

— "I'm not sure I understand you right now."

— "I know. In time, you will. I do what I must before the 'others' get to me. As for the full understanding, you will need Daniel Jackson in this regard."

It all clicked into place. Daniel Jackson. The stargate. Frances gasped.

— "What were you, before you were Merlin?"

— "An Alteran.[1] Then, I ascended. And returned, to help this world, losing memories and skills in the process, to set things in motion for the future. You are no stranger to that, Keeper of Time. You were created for this sole purpose by the Valar. This is why, you and I must work together"

Frances munched his response with a grimace. She couldn't help but feel that Merlin had a hidden agenda, one he had not shared at all. His talk of the future, and the 'others' didn't sit well with her. But what could she do? If Merlin was a former ascended being, going against him would be folly. And she didn't have half the data needed to get the big picture. What if she messed up the whole timeline?

— "Right. I'll side with you for the moment."

— "Good, we will both need all the help we can get"

— "Optimistic much ?"

His worried response caused a chill to run up her spine. What could an former Alteran be afraid of ? Then, Daniel's research popped into her mind, and she wondered if she had missed a capital information.

— "If I recall properly, I though you ascended lot weren't allowed to interfere ?"

Merin addressed her a wary look, his dark pools unnerving as he detailed her face.

— "I walk a fine line, and I am ascended no more. But the Saxons also have some help outside this plane of existence, hence the little leeway"

Frances bit her lip. This new information only increased her uneasiness tenfold. If those bastards were helped by an ascended, this would be the hell of a battle. It was like Sauron against Gandalf all over again. Understanding dawned on her features then.

— "This is why they have weapons of another time. The armor piercing crossbows"

— "Yes, probably"

Merlin's response was strangely neutral, as if he couldn't care less about weapons. As if the battle took place on another level altogether. Couldn't he see that such an advantage, armor piercing weapon, could mean a lot of death for their side ? But then, she remembered that the Picts fought nearly naked. It wouldn't make any difference to them. To the knights, though…

— "All right. Let us be allies. Just keep your daughter in check, will you? Arthur is not stupid, and his heart is not for sale."

The old man sent her a profound look, one that said that his daughter was not quite aware of his goals either.

— "I will take it into consideration."

— "Another one, since I'm here. Why have you killed so many of the knights in the past? Why not attempt peace before the Saxons?"

This time, the sorcerer turned away from her, descending the hill wearily.

— "I am but an elder in the council. My desire of peace and tolerance is not always met by the Picts. Even though it grieves me, I have done what I could, with the limited possibilities of a human mind. Farewell for now, Keeper of Time. I'll see you on the battlefield"

Well. This, she could understand. Navigating fifth century politics when you were the only one knowing about the future, and what it entailed, trying to negotiate through hatred and vengeance when the goal you had in mind was unattainable for years. Yeah. That was probably a difficult life. She wondered if Merlin had been born, or if he'd just constructed a human body out of scratch. Daniel probably would know a little better the processes of ascension, and its reverted form. As Merlin blended in the still woods, a voice echoed in her head. 'Be mindful of your choices,' he said, before his presence disappeared altogether. Puzzled, Frances walked back to Arthur and his maps. Choices, right. Which ones?

Eventually, both parties were satisfied with their strategy about the Saxon's arrival. The Picts would serve as the infantry and archery while Arthur would gather material to divide and conquer the battlefield. Namely, oil, tar and trenches. He was quite confident that some of the garrison would stay behind, and a part of the inhabitants as well. It might be only a few dozen men, but any sword could count at this point. As they retreated through the forest, Frances mounted behind Arthur, she couldn't help but remember the day the Rohirrim had handed weapons to thirteen-year-old boys. Fortunately, the situation was not where as desperate as it had been at Helm's deep since people could still escape the slaughter. She wondered, for a moment, if she would meet her end in the battlefield. The letter she'd left for her cousin sat on her living-room table. Saying goodbye.

Arthur's giant warhorse produced a quiet pataclop on the leaf littered ground, his hooves echoing whenever their layer thinned. The icy wind had died during the day, giving Frances a nice respite as she observed her surroundings. The forest had an eerie quality, sun rays showing in between trunks and nude branches, warming up ground and beasts alike. The young woman closed her eyes, their silent treading lulling her to a meditative state. Arthur was lost in the recessed of his mind as he pondered his decisions. Based on what he knew, and the tremendous amount of information he felt he didn't – Keeper of Time included – he couldn't help but question his choices. Frances had given him a slight recollection of her discussion with Merlin; she'd follow his lead when it came to the fight. Period. It should have quietened his doubts, but somehow, he couldn't prevent from feeling that Merlin as not entirely truthful. And she knew it.

The sudden appearance of his scout called his attention back to here and now. Eyes hidden under his unruly braids, Tristan reached him with purpose; albeit he could see a slight pursing of his lips as he realised Frances rode behind him.

— "The Saxons will be there at dawn in two days' time," he stated calmly, giving his report as if nothing had changed.

Arthur's eyebrows shot up.

— "Have you been scouting, Tristan?"

The man nodded, sending a flare of pride and reconnaissance into Arthur's chest.

— "Thank you, my friend, for this last favour. But you're free now. I will ask no more of you."

A perplexed look answered him, and for once, Tristan let his mask slip.

— "You don't have to ask" was his even reply.

And his former commander marvelled at the sincerity in his voice, until the fearsome warrior he'd rubbed shoulders with for fifteen years spared a glance at his back. He could feel the young woman fidgeting behind him.

— "Are the woods safe, there, Tristan?" she asked.

His smooth voice answered flatly.

— "As safe as can be with Woads. They still don't attack you?"

It was Arthur who forestalled her reply.

— "And nor you, for we have a truce until the Saxons come."

Tristan eyed him suspiciously for a moment, trying to discern the wheels cogging in his mind before her turned his gaze back to Frances. The young woman tapped his shoulder.

— "Then Arthur, if you have no further need of me, I'll meet you this evening."

Arthur stilled his mount as Frances jumped to the ground, her strong grip tightening on his forearm to do so. The string of curses she released then nearly made him blush. Pinned by his reproachful look, the young lady sheepishly shrugged.

— "Sorry, forgot about my leg"

Arthur's features softened. That injury had saved Dagonet's life, and he was grateful for her sacrifice. Spurring his mount forward, he addressed the lady and the quiet knight a nod before retreating to the wall.

Tristan's eye followed Arthur for a while before he dismounted, his tall frame towering over Frances as they both watched the commander's sagged posture. At last, the scout turned his gaze to her, and the light of the sun danced in his amber eyes.

— "Where have ye been, he?" he asked.

Frances's smile was so genuine that warmth spread in Tristan's chest. He wasn't expecting it, after their disagreement the night before, but her acceptance at his clumsy words lifted a weight from his shoulders. 'Mine' was screaming his mind. 'Mine!" But she'd never be his, and he knew it.

— "If I am to be talked to like a pet, I'd rather be a wild cat."

And she started purring, so realistically that one of his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. It took all of his will power not to caress her wild hair. The fiery strands danced in the air, tangled by the morning ride and icy wind, creating a mane of fire that shone in the sunlight. How fierce she was, his little fairy! Eventually, Tristan regained his senses.

— "So, have you taken part of this truce?"

— "I certainly was submitted to the dull negotiations, yes."

Her sour voice called a smile to his lips, but his amusement was short-lived as he set a hand on her shoulder.

— "Do you trust Merlin?" he asked seriously.

Frances shrugged, the movement dragging his hand with her, reminding him that he should let go. Which he did… reluctantly.

— "Not really, but we don't have anything else"

And once more, Frances wondered about the future Merlin had mentioned. Was it about establishing the Arthurian peace? Its legends? Or anything about the stargate system? As she thought, Tristan grasped his horse's reins, and they started walking in the direction of the fort, or wherever he wanted to lead her. For once, the scout's pace was more sedate and she couldn't help but feel grateful; he was mindful of her limitations.

— "He has in own agenda", she added. "Something much grander than this battle."

— "Agenda?"

The slight frown on Tristan's face called Frances back to reality. Of course, he wouldn't know what an agenda was; it probably was a recent expression. Well, recent, later than the middle ages.

— "Sorry. What I mean is that for the moment, his own goal goes in the same direction as ours. And I guess he will put all of his means to aid against the Saxon. Physical and … others."

Another question took her off guard; sometimes, she wondered how the scout could be so perceptive. It wasn't the first time she surmised he might have read her mind.

— "Is he human?"

Her shock widened her hazel eyes, their depth eating half of her face. After all, Tristan called her a fairy, and had accepted her arrival in a flash of blue light. They were shamans in Sarmatia, his culture had probably taught him about spirits and such. Overall, Tristan was probably more open that she was regarding the afterlife.

— "Er. A little…"

Unfazed by her half-truth, Tristan kept walking, his steps silent on the littered ground.

— "More precisely?"

Frances huffed, a little lost as well.

— "He's human at the moment. Don't know if he'll stay that way, though."

— "And once more, you make no sense, woman."

His voice was stern, but his eyes twinkled in mischief. An easy expression that was so scarcely displayed on his schooled features. The rebuke made her laugh, a slight tingle in the forest that made his chest ache. Suddenly, his arms circled her waist and she was lifted onto his mount with an undignified 'eep'.

— "You shouldn't walk so much, little fairy. You'll rip the stitches"

Perched upon the mighty warhorse, Frances seemed not so merry now. But a quick caress to Aydin – his mare – caused her to start walking again and her rider seemed to deflate. The wistful expression upon her lovely features caused his heart to stir, and he wondered what was going on in her head.

— "Tell me about it"

And she did. Frances explained everything she knew of the Alterans, and the concept of ascended being. Tristan observed her, as was his wont whenever she fed him incredible stories. He was used to it by now; he knew she never lied, not to him.

— "Of course, I'm telling you this because I trust you to take it to your grave, right? Hoping it will in a good while…"

Tristan only nodded; it was good enough for her.

— "But that battle stuff, you know, it is so tedious. It took them forever to plan something, ugh! And their scouts are so slow, they didn't even know where the Saxons are exactly. We had to guess by calculating on the map… Thank God you've confirmed it, because Arthur and I we were way out of our depths."

His stern reply acted as a trigger.

— "You are not really patient, little fairy."

Lifting her hands in the air, Frances turned to him in exasperation.

— "Arrrgh! No! I hate waiting! I hate people from the south that can't respect an appointment, and the doctors, and the SNCF[2] with their late trains!"

Half of her ramblings were lost to him, the very notions and acronyms she was using unknown. But her impatience amused him, and the fact that she was not guarding her words attested of her trust. He knew there was much more simmering under the surface; plenty of time, he'd seen her bite her tongue rather than speaking plainly. But with him, she had loosened up enough to let tiny details slip. Who was she, really ? For he doubted she was a roman subject from Lugdunum. Still, her impatience matched the temper from southern ladies.

— "You need to learn how to wait if you want to be a good scout."

Frances paused, eyeing him in awe. From her position, she could only see the back of his hair, braids dancing as he walked. Was he offering to teach her? At last, she deflated, tension fleeing her body in waves.

— "I know. Patience has never been my forte."

— "Obviously"

This time, she bent over to swat at his arm playfully, and he remarked that his fingers did not look for a dagger, even in the wilds. How far he'd come, to feel safe in her presence. Perhaps now was the time to ask her who she was, truthfully. Perhaps in a circumvoluted way, he could learn more.

— "Frances?"

There was uncertainty in his voice, the air suddenly charged between them.

— "Yes?"

— "How much do you know about the future ?"

* * *

[1] In the Stargate fandom, the Alteran – the others - are highly evolved people who built the stargate system. They disappeared as people by 'ascending' to another plane of existence, thus becoming incorporeal. Some would sometimes take human form again to help the humans in their evolution. Merlin is believed to be one of them.

[2] French train system


	20. Music soothes all ailments - Reviewed

**_You can find some Cossack traditional sword dances that inspired me for this chapter on YouTube. So here is the extended version of a former chapter._**

****— _Frances?"_

_There was uncertainty in his voice, the air suddenly charged between them._

— _"__Yes?"_

— _"__How much do you know about the future?"_

The young woman froze, her mind reeling with the consequences of her next words. Tristan just watched the proceedings, contemplating the tiny line between her eyebrows that indicated deep thinking. He waited; would she grace him with the truth? She had never lied to him, preferring to remain silent whenever she wanted to conceal her knowledge. But he knew how much she didn't share; the reason for it, though, remained unclear. His horse stopped, reacting to the pull on the reins, standing tall beside him. Both awaiting answers.

Frances was at loss. Could she tell him? Trust him? Yes, of course, trust was not in question. Who better than the scout could understand her predicament? Her efforts to protect and save his brothers? So she settled for the full truth; he deserved it.

— "Er… I… I am unsure, but Arthur is supposed to be a King that stays in the legends."

A King, she had said so in the cart the day before. It was a double-edged answer, and for a moment, they resumed walking in silence. Until his amber eyes bored holes into hers.

— "How do you know?"

A sly smile upturned the corner of her mouth; there, once more the right question.

— "You will think me crazy, Tristan."

— "I already think you are crazy, woman."

Laugh bubbled in her chest at the genuine, yet affectionate comment. For those who thought the scout single-minded in his killing spree, they were in for a massive surprise. Tristan was as subtle as they come; he noticed much and understood most of it. She wondered how many peasants at the fort had pierced his thick walls and took a glimpse of the complex person inside. He impressed her, mightily. Hence her slow exhale before she surrendered the last layer of deception from her persona.

— "I … hail from the future. Or maybe a parallel world."

Tristan's nonexistent eyebrows disappeared under his unruly fringe ad he levelled her with a shocked look. He had expected a seer with knowledge of certain events … but not THIS.

— "Look, I'm not even sure this is the past of my timeline. It might be an alternate reality, I have no way of knowing until I hit the internet when I get back, and even then…"

She was babbling again, and Tristan interrupted her tersely.

— "It had been awhile since you made no sense at all, woman."

Silence. Her cheeks slightly reddened, and the knight inwardly cringed at the rudeness of his chastisement. His voice was gentler when he interrogated her anew.

— "What is this net you are supposed to hit?"

Frances repressed a giggle, too self-conscious to chance a look at the scout. Hitting a net, right. Hoped he wouldn't take umbrage with her sudden merriment, she wondered how to explain the theories of astrophysics to a fifth-century man. And chose not to, no matter how intelligent he might be. There were notions; Newton, Einstein and such that were just too foreign to handle. It took her years to master them, or at least, understand any of it. Years of physics, mathematics and geometry. As for the internet … ugh. There was no way she would be able to explain it, for she didn't understand half of it.

— "Never mind."

A surge of anger hit her suddenly, and she instantly knew she had ruffled his feathers.

— "I am not simple, woman. Explain"

Frances fidgeted on the horse until she managed to climb down without pulling a stitch. Tristan froze until she came face to face with him, leaving him the leisure to gaze into her eyes. She had gathered, over the last days, that it was the best way to talk to Tristan for he could read her answers plain as day on her face.

— "I do not master all those notions. I am not educated enough. The internet is a tool I use than contains knowledge, but I would be hard pressed to explain for I do not know how it works. As for parallel worlds… I have no clue if the place I am today is the past of my own life, or another place entirely. Does it make sense?"

Tristan sensed her confusion, her genuine effort to explain things she couldn't quite comprehend herself. It felt like an apology, and he nodded his assent, choosing to focus on the mind-blowing news she had just admitted to.

— "So you hail from the future…"

The expression on his face held some relief. As if he could pull the puzzle together piece by piece. His memory bordered on eidetic; this is what made him an incredible scout. All the little details he had picked up started to form a consistent image. How she sometimes fumbled with the simplest of things, her ramblings when she got hurt about physics and whatnot, her mention of a sewing machine, and many, many more hidden comments that seemed like private jokes or references to things only she knew. It also explained her reluctance to kill, and view the world properly. Now, it all made sense; it wasn't her world. And it was reassuring to understand it all.

Except that the damn woman was from the future.

— "Yes. I am called the Keeper of Time, chosen by the Valar, my betrothed's Gods, to set things right. Except that they don't tell me what to do, or what I'm supposed to change, so it can be a bit tedious."

— "You mean you have no instructions ?"

— "No. I just pop somewhere… and make decisions. Sometimes I have visions to help"

Understanding dawned, something akin to awe crossing his features for the split of a moment.

— "Saving Gawain and Dagonet. This is why you were here."

Frances nodded, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. She couldn't read Tristan's expression, so many emotions seemed to swirl in his gaze, only to be repressed and replaced by the careful mask he always wore.

— "And more, since I am still here. Unfortunately, this is not over."

He nodded carefully, and she wondered what he thought of this whole ordeal. Asking him would lead her nowhere; Tristan was a man of few words, and kept his thoughts more guarded than Fafnir's treasure. Maybe, if she asked nicely, he might share some. If he didn't deem her a threat now that she had admitted her origins. After fifteen years guarding himself, his ways were so deeply embedded that she doubted he did it consciously. Half sentences and partial truth was the best she would get. If he wasn't angry, it meant he accepted her words. Period.

— "Do you really come from Lugdunum?" he suddenly asked.

It was an important question; one of the first facts she had shared with them. A token of trust. And in this very moment, Frances was really glad she had not lied about her origins.

— "Yes. Just now it is called Lyon, and the country named France – after Frank people who conquered it. There are ruins of the Roman empire in my city, remains of an amphitheatre only."

His face brightened then, a dangerous gleam shining in his eyes.

— "Ruins ? So the romans have fallen… When?"

— "I was born in 1984. The year now is 2006."

The news floored him entirely, and Tristan just barely avoided to slip on a muddy patch. Him, slipping! Fifteen hundred years in the future. This was an insane amount of time.

— "Tell me about the future."

A request, not an order. And Frances obliged as he led her to a stream, its banks half-frozen from the harshness of the previous night. Sunlight filtered through the clearing, hard rocks, rounded by the assaults of the British weather, peeking into the water here and there. The knight unleashed his mare, letting her graze on the little grass that still persisted, and he sat on the bank. Silence fell over them both, like a blanket of comfort. This place had harboured many of his existential crisis; here his thoughts could run freely, or be at peace. After Bedivere's death … he had often ended here, night or day, to talk to his spirit.

Never before had he dragged someone in this sacred place of his. But today, it felt right. There were many things on his mind; the future, the Saxons, the feeling of his deadened heart, her tales of times to come. None of them too urgent, mind you, as he intended to rest from the turmoil for a while.

Beside him sat Frances, neither too close, nor too far so that she could reach him at arm's length. Her eyes sparkled – she loved ice and water alike – as she settled properly, body propped backwards, her wounded leg extended. A long time passed without a word, both at peace both observing the beauty of nature, not a hint of fidgeting showing up. Tristan merely understood that, no, Frances was in no way impatient with the world, but with humans. A sentiment he shared as people prattled about things without ever coming to the point. The Romans were masters as this with their protocols and ceremonial. But she wasn't. Frances was as blunt as they come, coating her words, sometimes, with the barest hint of diplomacy.

Eventually, she fished out a strange device from her leather bag. A little grey square of metal, not bigger than her hand, to which were attached two long cords. She fondled with the thing, tapping here, squeezing there, her eyes fixed on the … device until a satisfied smile graced her lips. Then, she plugged one of the cords in her hear, and held her hand out with the second one.

— "Since you know most of my secrets, I would like to share music with you."

Tristan roamed his tongue across his upper teeth.

— "Music?"

— "Yes. Will you let me show you?"

A strange gleam of uncertainty passed into his eyes, but then, he relented. Frances took a deep breath. The first bars of "Beethoven's five secrets" – from the Piano guys – were already playing, and she climbed on her uninjured knee to plug the earphone into his ear. It was a delicate matter since she'd never been that close to him, and in such an intimate position. She knew Tristan to be quite twitchy when it came to physical contact – his barriers were thicker than a bunker's – and didn't want to make him uncomfortable, but he seemed the kind of man who could appreciate the intensity of classical music. Laying a settling hand on his shoulder, she was surprised by his stillness. He did not move an inch until the ear plug was in place. Then, he shot her the most startled look she'd ever seen his amber eyes sport.

Tristan being Tristan, he didn't back off, nor yell, nor even move a muscle. He took his time, studying this new devilry, the effect of the sound coming from her strange device, his gaze intense, unreadable, pinning her in place without an ounce of remorse. As if she held all the answers of the world. And then, as the melody picked up, his eyes closed, and the wind gently ruffled at his hair as he let the waves of music permeate his whole being. At last, a single tear rolled down his cheek, a tear he blatantly ignored, lost in the grandeur of Beethoven. A surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her, and Frances repressed a choking sound at the sight of the scout undone. She loved than song dearly; it made her cry sometimes, when in the right frame of mind. It held such joy, and sadness at the same time. But to see its effects on Tristan, stern faced, angered, ruthless Tristan, to witness his features relaxed, serenely basking in the sun as the music coursed through his veins. Well, that was a chef d'oeuvre she would remember her whole life. His sensitivity made no doubt; he wouldn't be such a good scout if he wasn't. But to witness it firsthand as he surrendered to the music was a privilege.

Frances realised then how harsh the fifth century was for a man like him. Had he been born in the 21st, he'd probably be a dancer, or a badass musician. Here, he'd just been forced into a life of heartbreak and violence, causing him to raise shields stronger than the Wall of Hadrian to protect his soul. Not that he wasn't a warrior at heart; few could excel with weapons with such skill. She wondered how said sensitivity allowed him to perfect his level of proficiency. His sheer determination was probably the drive that pushed him further and further. Yes. Tristan was a man to respect, in body and mind. And she was glad that he allowed her to be his friend; the level of proximity they shared now was nothing short of miraculous.

As the last bars played out quietly, Steven's cello dragging the latest notes, Frances sent a prayer to the Valar and the Sarmatian Gods. A prayer for this broken man, so that he could enjoy his freedom, live a long and peaceful life, find a wife who honoured him and understood the sacrifices he's made, to nurse him back to health and give him hearty and lovely children to brighten his days. So that when she was gone, someone would take care of him and love him for the greatness of his heart, overlooking the harshness of his exterior. Surely such a woman existed; a woman who would drag him out of his shell and accept the pieces he'd put into her hands, to reconstruct his soul again. She prayed as well, for all his brothers. May they share the same fate, and enjoy the happiness they deserved. To the few of them that remained, she hoped for them a bright future.

At last, the song ended, and Frances paused her mp3 player, wondering if Tristan would want to hear more. His golden eyes, once more, were fixed upon her face. Searching for something.

— "Did you enjoy this piece?" she asked.

— "Yes"

Enough to force a tear out of his stoic self but Frances wasn't expecting him to pour his awe forth. His assent was already a great step ahead. Tristan's communication passed through actions, not words.

— "What is this instrument?" he eventually asked.

— "A pianoforte"

His lips pursed.

— "Never heard of it."

— "You couldn't have, it is a sixteenth-century invention. Or so. I just can't remember. Anyway, it used to be a harpsichord, with a keyboard and…"

Tristan's blank stare told her he had no clue about what she was talking about. Picking a twig nearby, Frances tried to draw the instrument in a patch of dust. The result was … not very realistic, at best.

— "Look. Drawing is not my strongest suit, nor is the history of music instruments. Anyway, the player hits the keyboard, which hits the chords accordingly and echoes in the belly of the instrument. And you can modulate."

This time, Tristan nodded, his eyes slightly squinted. She wondered if he was amused at her babbling, or miffed about the whole future thing. The truth was that she would never know.

— "The sound is beautiful. Do you play?"

— "I did as a kid. Then … life got in the way. It is my favourite instrument with the violin. Would you like to hear more?"

The knight nodded, the glint of curiosity in his eyes rendering his face much younger, almost boyish. Frances wondered what he would look like without his beard aging him, or the matted mop of hair that hid his features. Sometimes, he really reminded her of the rangers of the north; they would have welcomed him with open arms, albeit he would have aged prematurely among the Dunedains blessed with a long life. A loner caught by the beauty of music; the archetype of a misanthropist. A shiver ran through Frances' spine, the effect of sitting still in the cold. But it felt so good to be outside of those crushing walls!

The next track was "home", still from the Piano guys. Frances didn't dare switching to more modern music yet, especially since she'd found Tristan's love for the piano.

— "This is my favourite from them," she explained.

Tristan lifted an eyebrow under his unruly mane.

— "Why not your favourite first?"

There was no accusation in his soothing voice and Frances laid back on her arms, stretching her thigh that protested from the intense cold. Her fingers, too, were getting numb.

— "I wanted to introduce you to more classical stuff first. This is more unconventional."

A twinkle of amusement danced in the scout's eyes before his gaze got lost in the stream.

— "Ah, sparing an old man."

— "You are not an old man!" she scoffed.

But instead of finding mirth in her words, Tristan barely sighed.

— "Aye, I am. I feel so old. My very soul is tired."

His sadness struck her like lightning, tearing a hole into her chest. It was clear as day now; the scout's anger and bloodlust were sadness in disguise, deep desperation turned outwards against his enemies rather than inwards – a means of survival. Perhaps a way to keep control over a life that made no sense, over the inevitable death of his comrades in a fight that wasn't his. The young woman swallowed, wondering if she should reach out for the still statue of the knight who refused to meet her gaze. Laid bare to her scrutiny, his wounds so raw that they still bled.

Instead of prying, Frances pushed the button, leaving the healing to people who knew better. At once, piano and cello rose up to the task, engulfing them both into a dimension where hope existed still. How she loved that song, reminding her of her home place and the people that awaited her return ! How fitting, too, that two misplaced people would be listening about home. Wherever that was. Truth be told, Frances didn't know anymore. And while Tristan's mind was transported through the music, hers lingered on the many people she had met, loved and left behind in the course of her travels. Bittersweet memories that called a few tears to escape. Fortunately, the scout by her side was too enthralled by the flurry of piano notes to spot it. It was so beautiful … incredible, how two musicians could produce such joy, such hope with a piano and a cello. Hope that she might see Legolas again… Her heart swelled with pride then; she had met fantastic great people, been given love that the loss suddenly felt insignificant compared to the privilege.

Incredible, what music could do. So when the piece stopped, she turned her shining eyes to Tristan.

— "This one was called … 'home."

The scout shifted slightly to meet her gaze; his eyes were forlorn, golden-flecked in the sunlight, as if still scouring another place entirely.

— "Aye, it spoke to me of green fields and freedom."

Frances nodded, her mind travelling to another time where, high in the valley of Rivendell, she used to skate on the frozen lake. Before she met Legolas Greenleaf and gave him her heart.

— "I can relate, even if my vision was slightly different."

The scout didn't even have to ask, keeping his gaze fixed upon the little fairy.

— "I skate at home," she went on. "It's like dancing on ice with blades fixed upon my shoes."

Head cocked aside, Tristan seemed to mull on her image for a moment. Then he stood, so suddenly that she started.

— "I'll show you some Sarmatian dancing."

She couldn't believe it; Tristan was offering an insight into his culture by himself, without even having to pry it out with oyster pliers. She refrained the smile from splitting her face as she made to stand. Tristan offered his arm to help her up, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

— "Will you allow be to borrow your sword?" he asked.

The formalism caught her off guard, but not the respect. Perhaps, in times past, Tristan had known how to communicate with his peers. Perhaps he had been more than a ruthless scout in his tribe? Her hesitation was met with an almost sheepish look. Who more than a warrior could value its weapon?

— "It is a dance with a blade, but mine is too long", he explained.

Frances smiled, unsheathing the Dao that replaced her elvish blade until she could lay hands on it again. She had no qualms about surrendering this particular sword; it meant nothing to her.

— "Of course, I wouldn't want you to shop your legs off."

Tristan snorted derisively; as if he could harm himself with his own blade! Despite her teasing, he received Frances's sword with reverence. Then he took a few steps back and shed his heavy leather; the cold wouldn't bother him through the dance. The young woman extended her arms to receive the garment but he let his slide to the ground without a care in the world. Frances nearly kicked herself; of course, this was a stitched leather, not a fragile velvet vest! Tristan had probably scouted with this for years, rolled in the dirt and slept within. A few minutes on the frozen ground wouldn't kill it.

The view that greeted her when her eyes reverted to him nearly caused her to blush. She'd never seen Tristan in his tunic and leather breeches, and he cleaned up rather nicely. Broader shoulders than she expected complimented the linen fabric, and despite the stains, it seemed almost intimate. Dark curls escaped the v-shaped collar, and the hem was just plain raw. Her fingers itched to stitch it properly. Oblivious to her stare, Tristan was already anchored in the ground, his feet apart in a position that reminded her of fencing, his arm extended as he tested the blade. A slight frown marred his features as he balanced it from left to right, slashing a few imaginary adversaries before sending it flying into the air. Several times, higher and higher until he managed to twirl it around twice before it fell back into his extended hand.

— "Tis not the best of blades, but it will do. Although it is strangely light. Did it ever break?"

There was no insult behind his words, just a statement and a hint of worry. Perhaps he wasn't used to steel, his blade was probably wrought from iron after all. Which meant more maintenance, more weight as well. Such metal wouldn't exist for centuries to come, and lead to a revolution weapon-wise.

— "No, it is more solid than it seems. I know the balance is not ideal. My old sword was much better and this is just a replacement,"

Tristan nodded; whether he didn't want to pry, or hear the full story of her sword, Frances ignored it. Peace descended upon the clearing, some kind of eeriness that called a shiver to descend her spine. Had Tristan called his ancestors? Made a prayer to higher spirits? They had mentioned shamans, after all. At once, she felt surrounded by a strange atmosphere, and her eyes were captivated by the moves of the man before him. As if he represented a whole nation, rather than Arthur's scout.

His first movements were slow, very deliberate, and incredibly controlled. It resembled Tai Chi, the sword an extension of him arm. A kata of sorts, where muscles extended to their very limit, wrist locked forward. Legs followed, drawing a pattern on the ground and Frances understood. If Tristan was such a fierce fighter, his skills took roots in the traditional dance for which he was gifted. She had heard many times how classical dancing was the best way to forge a body for martial arts. Tristan was a brilliant proof of that theory. He was graceful, moving with such intent, such purpose. His presence infused every single movement, irradiating from his body and outwards. As if something vibrated from his very core to the rest of the clearing, gracing his inner being to the world that surrounded him.

Something changed then, and his wrist suddenly seemed to turn to jelly as the sword twirled in his hand, it speed increasing until she couldn't follow the movement anymore. It was then that the dance really started as Tristan was but a blur of movement, imitating the rotation of her blade. The steel started to sing, faster and faster, until it soared in the air, caught up at the very last moment. Her sword passed behind Tristan's back many times, left and right, from hand to hand, or above his head as he ducked, dodged and coaxed the blade as if a partner. Together, they were an impenetrable wall of man and steel, and still they twirled around each other like companions of death.

Mesmerised, Frances' watched his lean body perform a technical prowess she was incapable of. His braids danced around his face, and she wondered how he could possibly see with the mess of his hair. Yet, it didn't impair him as he launched the blade into the air and watched it, full body coiled, until it landed in his outstretched arm. A grand finale, for he bowed next, and walked back to her to grant the sword back to its owner. Frances bowed her head in acknowledgement, mightily impressed. Tristan smirked at her dazed look, then he wiped the sweat from his brow. He was slightly winded, but with the amount of sparring the knights did it was barely surprising.

— "And you call yourself an old man!"

The knight retrieved his leather vest on the frozen floor, settling it upon his broad shoulders with a shrug.

— "Aye. Maybe not yet," he deadpanned as he fumbled with his belt.

Frances gave him a crooked smile, remembering Galahad's jealous quip on the way to Marius's estate.

— "So this is why Galahad is so jealous?"

Giving her an amused stare, Tristan proceeded to adjust the sheath to his back.

— "Galahad has two left feet when it comes to dancing."

— "You obviously don't, it was beautiful. Do everybody dance like this in your home tribe?"

Tristan paused, his fingers hovering over the buckles of his Dao's. Did he want to go that way? Down memory lane? Frances had talked, at length, about her world, but it didn't entail him speaking about his. Yet … he wanted to share, just for once, those memories long gone. His eyes were unguarded, for once, when he met Frances' gaze.

— "It is custom where I come from that we perform the dance for guests."

There was a hidden meaning in his words. Did he consider her a guest to his tribe ? Was this a welcome token ? What would have happened, her they met differently, in the depths of the Sarmatian steppes ? As she watched his face intently, Frances suddenly wondered what the tattoos meant. An image sprang to her mind; a family with a tall girl, a boy with long unruly hair and two smaller ones - twins. The woman's features were blurred, but the man sported the same arrows on his cheekbones, his gaze hard, even harder than Tristan's was. A leader. He shared many features with his son… Snapping out of her trance, Frances gave Tristan a curious look.

— "Are you high born?"

Tristan took her question in stride, his eyes gleaming with some sort of relief. As if, at last, she had managed to puzzle him. As if she'd had the answer all along, but never cared to look.

— "The tattoos mean I should have been the next chieftain. It will never happen now."

— "Don't say such things"

Frances nearly kicked herself for the platitude, for Tristan's smooth voice crushed her hopes without an ounce of hesitation.

— "I know it. No use to dwell on it. My cousin had probably replaced me already."

— "Why not your little brothers?"

This time the scout started, his mouth slightly agape. If her deduction of him being or high blood wasn't extraordinary given her education – the Romans knew whom to address in the Yazigues – she couldn't know of his brothers.

— "What do you know of them?"

His defensive tone caused Frances to lift her hands in peace.

— "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I think… I have seen them, just now. I think it was your family. Your father had the tattoos as well, although they are slightly curvier than yours. And your sister is a tall blondish woman, but I had trouble seeing your mother's features."

This time, Tristan couldn't help but purse his lips. There was nowhere in the world she could have gathered this information except from the spirits. Perhaps his mother was still looking after him from the heavens. The scout nodded, his chest tightening painfully.

— "Aye. She was a shaman, you can't see her. But you are not much of a seer if you've seen my brothers"

Anger, to shield the pain. Frances recognised it at once and didn't take offence, choosing instead, to be honest.

— "I am not … accustomed to this gift. I don't master it at all. Why?"

— "They are dead and buried."

Dead. Another set of brothers dead. How much loss could a man sustain?

— "I'm sorry," she whispered.

— "Don't be, unless you sent us the disease that killed them, you are not responsible."

They were both standing now, facing each other in the clearing with not a clue on how to escape the icy mood that had settled between them. Tristan was the first to speak. Always the courageous one.

— "Should I bring you back to the Wall?"

Frances considered his question seriously. Maybe they'd be shielded from the cold, but she didn't want to go back. Not yet. She needed this calm before the storm.

— "Nay. I will stay awhile. It might seem stupid, but I always loved to be able to see further away than a piece of wall"

Tristan nodded; he couldn't agree more.

— "Then I shall stay as well"

Frances bit her lip to prevent her doubts from being voiced; she was perfectly capable of walking back to the wall by herself, and didn't know if Tristan stayed out of obligation to the lady knight she now was. Truthfully, she didn't intend to point it out, far too content of the present company. Settling down with the help of hos sturdy grip – funny how his touch was now familiar - Frances fished out her mp3 once more.

— "I have some other songs that you might enjoy from the same people. I think their music quite agrees with you."

— "How does this work?"

His smooth voice was a little unsure, his expression unguarded for once.

— "Well. We have devices that record what people play, and then, other devices, like this one, that use the recording to replay it. Is that a suitable answer?"

— "Partly"

Of course, Tristan would want to know the workings of this great device she owned. He was a man who demanded what, how and when. To this unfortunately, Frances had no answer: she was hopeless in electronics!

— "I'm sorry I don't know the particulars. Honestly, I wasn't educated in matters of technology."

— "There are many things you seem not to know."

What the fuck? And what about what she knew? Maths, biology, physics, geology? Quelling her first reaction to lash out, the young woman stole a glance at the scout. Stupid pride of hers ! Tristan looked stricken by his own wording; his features set in stone to brace for the sneer that should come her way. A hurtful comment, then a scowl. This is what people saw from the scout. It was no wonder, given the Roman's pride, that he was considered a barbarian when their silver tongue could coat any insult in honey. But if you looked a little further, and considered Tristan's words carefully, one might realise that he only stated the plain truth without any intend to harm. The world as he saw it, with perceptiveness and the naivety of a child.

Frances chuckled then, understanding his meaning. In the fifth century, she was a highly educated woman. Even in the twenty-first, she was considered by French politicians as part of an "elite". But given the sheer amount of knowledge in the modern world, there was much more she didn't know.

— "Yes. The world has evolved so much, you wouldn't believe it. In the fifteen century, we had some mathematician-philosopher-physicists and all that jack. Knowledge was still scarce enough for a human being to grasp it."

— "There are some Romans like that."

— "Yeah, a few still. And Greeks, and French a thousand years from now. Although they cultivate their ego just as much."

Tristan grunted in assent as she went on.

— "In my time … it is impossible. There were too many discoveries."

— "Of what kind ?"

— "Of any kind. Can you believe that a man has walked on the moon thanks to a flying machine ?"

There was no answer this time as Tristan lifted his eyes to the sky.

— "People have to specialise, and even then, we never know all of it. Healers can work forty years and still discover some diseases. We have sections, tropical diseases, and infectious ones, and surgery…"

The scout paused for a moment, trying to grasp the sheer amount of subjects that one could possibly study, and failing. A fifth-century man couldn't possibly project himself into things that didn't exist yet. And what was an infectious disease anyway? Weren't they all?

— "It seems … overwhelming."

— "Yeah. We have to accept to use things that we will never know how to build or repair. And accept that we'll be ignorant of most. For the record, I am considered rather educated," she quipped.

— "I have no doubt."

The cold wind brushed Frances' locks away and she retracted her neck to lessen the bite. The knight shifted a little closer, extending his cloak around her shoulders to share body warmth as she fondled once more with the commands. Her body tingled from his proximity, and Frances tried to redirect her attention to the device.

— "Still I couldn't tell you how this works. I suck at electricity"

His shoulder bumped with hers gently.

— "It doesn't matter, little fairy. It is amazing all the same."

His voice was so close, nearly brushing her ear. Frances shivered, then she found the song she as looking for; "Amazing grace." And for a while, there was only the sun, the river, and the music as they listened, unmoving, to the beautiful compositions of "The Piano guys". For once, even the emptiness of her heart, the missing piece that belonged to her elvish prince, hummed in contentment at the moment shared with a friend.

**_So, plenty of new information shared, and a little fluff. I hope you liked it, even if I have trouble writing the cold when I'm dying from the heat in my house: p_**


	21. and heartache - Reviewed

**_As usual, please review if you liked it. Not many changes on that one, the major one is that Tristan can keep his pride; he doesn't end up on the ground._**

Vanora's beautiful voice wove a web as she performed a duet with another of the tavern girls. Briton words, their sonority so foreign, rose and fell in an entrancing dance as Frances stepped in, her arm caught in Arthur's who had, gallantly, offered to walk her to the tavern. The Keeper of Time paused, eyes shining, her body attuned to the beauty of their song. She'd left Tristan in his room in company of her mp3 player as the sun travelled down; Vanora had a strict program laid out for them ere the celebration started. She'd been bathed, clothed with a revealing burgundy dress, and her hair styled in a heavy braid that crowned her head by one of Vanora's friends as she, herself, had to prepare for the proceedings.

The celebration consisted mainly in making merry. Singing, a little dancing, some music to enlighten the evening, and lots of ale and food. The presence of Arthur made it even more memorable; he that nearly always dined and broke his fast in his chambers with maps for company. He wouldn't have missed it for the world. After fifteen years of slavery, his men were free. At last! his heart wrenched when he took in the faces at the knights' table. Only six of them left, out of thirty. And Dagonet had very nearly succumbed; he wouldn't be here if it were not for the young woman holding his arm.

— "I thank you heartily, my lord, for the pleasure of your escort," she said with a smile.

Arthur bowed, releasing her arm. How she could switch from colloquial rambling to court speech was a wonder. There was as much of a lady than of a knight in her heart, a woman who could stretch to both sides of power and remain steadfast.

— "The pleasure was all mine, Lady Frances."

— "Somehow, I very much doubt that"

Arthur laughed at her good-natured jab, and he sat at the head of the table, Frances slipping on the bench at his right. It usually was Tristan's seat, but the scout had yet to show. Unbeknownst to them, amber eyes had been following them along the street, a shadow concealed among shadows. He only needed to make sure that Frances would not wander alone. Especially dressed and coiffed like a queen. For she looked like one, walked like one, and possessed this inner strength, and nobility, that would make her a good sovereign. There was no compassion like hers, no understanding of human nature deeper expect for Arthur. She was educated and clever, fierce and wise; a uniter of people, a force to reckon with. A good match for his commander. The scout's eyes lingered on the Pict woman as, she too, blended in the crowd, her dark gaze filled with anger. Jealousy painted her face with a sombre hue, transforming the plain goat into a dangerous witch.

Yet he understood her plight. How could a woman like her hope to ensnare Arthur when the Keeper of Time claimed his company? So bright, so genuine, so adorable when Guinevere… well. Better not to dwell on her poor assets; she wasn't meaty enough for his taste. At last, his commander and Frances exchanged pleasantries, and sat side by side. The genuine smile she sent him stirred something within his chest. For he remembered the words she had told Arthur. "You will make a mighty King someday". And she could be a devoted Queen. Her little fairy, Queen of the land, the forest and the sea. Where did that leave him? He would be her servant knight, a devoted protector and dear friend, a man who could care for her, love her from afar, but never touch her. No, he didn't deserve to taint such light. But Arthur did. Too bad she was already betrothed. None of it could come to pass. And she would go away, taken to the spirits knew where by her Gods… perhaps reunite with her betrothed ? He certainly hoped so.

As the scout claimed his seat beside her without shaking the bench, Frances turned with a hopeful expression. There it was, this blatant openness that she now bestowed upon him. Trust. As if her guarded nature had disappeared entirely. The disapproval of his ways was gone, replaced by renewed understanding. Baffled by her welcoming smile, Tristan greeted her with a nod. And then, his mischievous side decided to take a leap of faith, as he bent a little closer to her hear.

— "I have found that your tastes encompass some puzzling noise."

The sentence was sibylline enough so that anyone listening could not understand their meaning, but Frances' eyes widened all the same. Head held high, she stifled a laugh.

— "Oh. You've probably wandered in places you shouldn't have."

— "I am a scout."

As if this little sentence could explain his curiosity. And somehow, it did. If he'd been listening to NickelBack or Iron Maiden, she was surprised he had not dumped her mp3 player into a barrel of water or impaled it with a dagger. Tristan shifted beside her, catching a tankard of ale from a passing wench, and Frances almost felt sad at the loss of his breath on her face. The biggest loss, though, was the light in his eyes and the concealed smile on his lips. Beside him, she felt safe in this crazy world. Easy banter flew across the table, jokes, jests and memories of fallen knights blending in a bittersweet conversation.

Frances observed Galahad getting into his mug, Gawain silently watching by his side, his blue eyes glazed over by a veil of sadness. Bors was his noisy self, Dagonet his silent self, musing about lost lives and slavery probably. Yet, there was a glint of hope in his blue eyes, and his nod, directed to Frances told him of his gratitude.

Lancelot, sitting directly across her, was strangely subdued this evening. There was turmoil in his dark eyes. Guinevere, perhaps? Or the prospect of a freedom he didn't think he'd reach? Something tugged as her dress, and Frances turned around to find a flock of Vanora's brood with expectant faces. Beside her, Tristan harboured his trade smirk.

— "Yes?" she asked the children, ill at ease.

Silence met her question, and she turned around fully to face them.

— "Is there anything you need?"

— "Ar' ye a princess?" came a little girl's shy voice.

Taken off guard, Frances wondered what she could answer that. But the hope shining in those eyes told her it was time to quench their curiosity. The fact that they came to her, in numbers, sold their determination. And Vanora had been complaining all night about their behaviour. Maybe she could help.

— "Nay, but my betrothed is a Prince. The Prince of the forest of Greenleaves"

Behind her, Arthur Castus and Tristan shared a startled look. A prince. Well, that was new.

— "What is he like?"

— "And he's a big castle?"

— "The Queen, she is as beautiful as you?"

The flurry of questions sent her mind reeling, and she suddenly gripped Tristan's arm by her side for support. The face of Legolas flew before her eyes, his tales of Greenwood, King Thranduil and his beloved wife's death still fresh in her memory. The scout froze at her touch, and she addressed him an apologetic glance.

— "I don't know," came her tentative reply. "I have not met them yet."

Yet. Would she ever meet them, King Thranduil and his famous glittering halls?

— "Oh, tell us"

— "Yes, of yer prince"

— "Yes!" came five little voices at once.

And she was shoved from her bench and dragged into the kitchen, sending a hopeless look to the knight's table. Tristan only addressed her his signature impassive expression, and Gawain waved her goodbye with a smirk. As Vanora passed like a blur, Frances protested to the young mother.

— "Hey! You know I'm not good with kids!"

— "Sing to them" she yelled before disappearing around the corner.

Frances took a shuddering breath, utterly at loss. Talking of Legolas was too painful to make a merry tale, and this evening was about freedom and hope. Maybe, instead of recounting tales – a skill she didn't possess – she could steer their attention to something different. A smile crept on her face, she had an idea.

— "All right. What do you say to learning a new song?"

And learn they did, surprisingly well at that. Albeit they sang words in a foreign language – English – it didn't matter for they caught the hang of it quite easily. Frances marveled at their ability to form a makeshift choir, and for the good part of an hour, they learnt a very simple Gospel chorus. Bors' children were much more disciplined that their modern counterparts, that was for sure. The oldests kept the youngest in check, and let them like little generals, replacing Vanora when she couldn't be here. Somehow, the brood looked after themselves. The perks of living in a hostile environment with their knight of a father. Frances wondered, for a moment, if she was missing anything of the celebration. Somehow, she didn't think she had earned her place there. Fifteen days out of fifteen years still made a coefficient of 365 short.

Later in the night, it was a very tamed group or nine children who reintegrated the tavern with serious faces and stage fright.

— "There you are!" Exclaimed Vanora. "Time to release the poor lady now. Hop into bed, little ones!"

— "Wait!" they responded. "We want to sing!"

Their mother whirled around, eye them suspiciously when Frances appeared by their side.

— "It's all right Vanora, I've taught them a new song."

The redhead frowned slightly, and for a moment, Frances wondered if her little plan would be welcome. And then, she smiled at her youngest, and motioned for them to get in the enclosed courtyard. The little ones lined up neatly, forming two rows with the tallest behind. Bors' shouting match suddenly quieted as his proud gaze roamed over his children, the baby in his lap. Fortunately, most of the tavern ignored them, a few of the knights turning around to follow Bors' glance, the rest of the patrons too engrossed in playing dices, drinking, or groping women. Frances stepped in front of the group, a little self-conscious, but the happy faces that watched her clear her throat were enough to give her some heart. How badly she wanted to share hope and joy with the knights, yet she always wondered how it could be received.

'Well, to hell with that', she thought. Too late to bail now. As is sensing her discomfort, Arthur stood up and strode to her.

— "A little singing?" he asked, his eyes gentle.

Frances nodded, her throat dry.

— "What is this song about?"

The young woman motioned for him to come closer, and lifted on her toes. If the intimate gesture surprised him, the commander didn't show.

— "To you, I'll admit that it is about our lord Jesus Christ."

Turning to the others, who had now their attention fixed on the little group, she said more clearly.

— "Bors and Vanora's children wanted to share this song with you. It is about hope, and faith as well, whichever it is. It also speaks of redemption. That we all deserve it"

A heavy silence fell, deadened weight settling on the knight's shoulder, and Frances didn't wait lest she lost her courage.

— "Are you ready children?"

Various exclamations rose in the air, a mix of yes, aye and yeah quite distinguishable. Frances chuckled, and lifted her hand to gesture the commands of when they needed to sing. Damn, if someone had told her she would direct a makeshift choir of medieval children… And then, she started rather shyly.

"Oh happy day"

Her hand motioned to the children.

— "O – a pee day", they responded, just as shyly.

— "A little stronger!" she told them. "Again"

"Oh happy day-ay !"

Her voice had gained a little more confidence, and so was the response. Three other rounds of 'happy day' were necessary to give the rhythm.

"When Jesus washed"

Another command, another mumbled response with difficult lyrics. But she didn't mind, the tone was there, and so was the strength. Beside her, the knights were starting to pick up the game.

"When Jesus washed"

"Wane Jesus wooshd", the kids responded.

Frances smiled again, putting a little more force and variation in her voice.

"When Jesus washed."

Wane Jesus wooshd

"He washed our sins away."

Another gesture and the kids reverted to the previous line. Frances grinned like a fool; she was so proud of them for remembering! The message was clear; they could do anything together. Anything.

"o – a pee day"

All right. It was time to give it a little more punch. Frances stood taller, and unleashed her voice.

"Hey, it's a happy day."

The young woman clapped in her hands. The kids followed … and so did Bors and Galahad. And very soon, a good part of the tavern had stopped playing, womanising, and fighting to come a little closer. A new round of 'happy days' started, with more voices in the background.

— "All right children, people. Time for vocalisation!" she shouted.

And they were ready.

"La la la la la la la la la"[1]

Only the children responded this time. She shifted to the second pass.

"La La La La La"

This time, some people in the tavern played the game.

"La la la la la la la"

Bors was singing, so was Galahad! Frances grinned.

"LaLaLalala"

There, Lancelot and Gawain had joined the group. Frances's cheeks flushed with satisfaction as she finished the last ones. Whoopy Goldberg would be proud of her! But not the historians such was the anachronism. Who cared, people were having fun!

"Lalalalala"

Frances braced herself for the solo, this part had been too difficult for the kids to learn, so they would just be keeping a note while she sang. She was so riled up, she didn't realise her voice would carry so far, so strong.

"He taught me how

To watch

Watch and pray

Watch and pray"

Tristan watched, fascinated, as the little fairy brought his brothers into the game. Even Arthur, standing poised by her side, was clapping his hands now. It was a strange song, that one. Not so beautiful as the Ave Maria, her voice powerful, but containing variations that he didn't like as much. The rhythm, though, caused him to tap his foot. He didn't turn around fully, a hidden smile on his lips, one of his legs hooked up on the bench. An apple in his hand, the dagger slicing even pieces, he could only watch the grins on his brother's faces, the awe in Vanora's eyes, the hope in Arthur's glance. Even the Woad was dancing slightly. The strange song went round again, Frances's voice straining to cover the clapping of dozens of hands, the children jumping and yelling altogether, until she started to quicken the pace, and, at last ended it with a mighty final.

There was loud cheering, and praises being flung at her. Gawain hugged her, and so did Dagonet. Lancelot's arms, she avoided by twirling around effortlessly. The scout smirked at her deceptiveness; she could definitely use this in battle. She'd gathered a lot of attention, but everything in her posture told him she wanted to disappear now that her deed was done. So Tristan grabbed her sleeve as she passed, and tugged hard enough that she sank on the bench. Her face was flushed, her eyes alight, her shyness returning and he swore she'd never looked more beautiful. With the braid forming a crown upon her head, her features weren't hidden by loose strands; her whole profile exposed to studying. He was so close that he could discern the freckles on her upturned nose. He handed her a piece of his apple cut neatly, and she accepted it with awe. Tristan almost frowned at her expression, before he realised he'd never done it. Share his apple. That was friendship. Real friendship, not brotherhood, not companionship forced by the circumstances. And for once he didn't recoil from it, for he trusted her not to take advantage of this little gesture.

And when the agitation died down in the tavern, and most of the knights had passed out or made their way back, he tugged at her sleeve once more, and they walked, tasting the silence, until they found themselves on the stairs leading to the wall. The night was almost agreeable; the icy polar wind had eventually settled, and a few clouds populated the sky. Stars shone brightly, their slight twinkling casting their benevolence to the humans below. Despite the fair conditions, Frances couldn't help but feel uneasy. Her dream about King Arthur and his knights had been running through her mind, the absence of Tristan haunting her thoughts.

— "How's the leg ?", he asked.

Frances seemed surprised.

— "Better, thanks."

— "Then quit fidgeting, woman, and ask already."

The young woman sighed, putting her hands on the rocks to take in the drop below, her cloak slightly bellowing behind her silhouette. What if this was just a dream? Her imagination dreading for her newfound friend, without any hand from above? The fears of a stupid girl?

— "Will you go back to Sarmatia?"

His breathing seemed a little heavier, such a contrast with the brief moment of silence. His lips were pursed, his eyes scanning the landscape that scarcely showed under the waning moon. There, standing like a shadow, he almost felt intangible. A ghost from the past. At last, his smooth voice graced her with a response. Words that seemed almost empty.

— "I wonder, sometimes, what is left is Sarmatia for me to find…"

It was a yes, as well as a no.

— "A Normand's response, as we say in my country."

Her little jest did not amuse him, for he was watching her intently. The eyes of a hawk, looking for the tiny mouse unlucky enough to cross its path. Frances wondered, for the umpteenth time, how he could muster such a commanding presence by standing still. As if, by the mere effect of staring, he could extract her deepest secrets. As if he projected his whole being, his soul into her. It was fortunate that she had nothing to hide from him. Except for now.

— "Why are you asking?"

Busted. She was so badly screwed, unable to sustain his questioning gaze. How could one lie to Tristan? It was close to impossible … especially when you were, in the first place, a terrible liar.

— "You asked for a little warning next time. There it is."

Seing that she had his undivided attention, she told him of her dreams, and the turmoil it created in her mind since the scene refused to be forgotten. Tristan nodded in understanding; he wasn't one to dismiss unnatural things as sorcery, especially when it came to his little fairy. Her skills as a seer had saved Dagonet, after all. Then, something akin to acceptance shone in his eyes, their colour almost grey under the timid moonlight. The scout took a step closer, capturing her in his gaze.

— "Frances"

And the name rolled on his tongue like silk on bare skin.

— "Yes"

— "If you face a choice. Don't save me"

Frances braced her hands on the wall, trying to rein her breath. His words struck something deep within her, the horrible sensation of a future already set. A fleeting vision of a bloodied battlefield slammed into the darkness of her mind, and she closed her eyes. Tristan wasn't done yet, she could hear it in the tone of his voice. Any interruption would ensure he'd never explain his revelation. And she needed to know why he was so prone to accept death. The scout's eyes were on her still, the warmth of his body nearly tangible by her side.

— "I'm broken, not fit for a life apart from fighting."

There not much sadness left in his voice, only acceptance. And this, only, broke her heart in tiny pieces. Turning to him, Frances took a step closer to be able to meet his eyes.

— "But you would name your children, right ? I know you would."

Her hands were trembling and she closed them into fists to prevent him from seeing how this discussion affected her. She shouldn't have bothered, for Tristan's eyes were lost in the darkness., far beyond the wall, far beyond the land.

— "I'll beat them as well, probably. Naming them doesn't mean loving them."

— "Tristan"

His name came out as a plea, and she tentatively reached for the sleeve of his leather. The scout swatted it away with an angry move, staring at her with fury. With his height, he towered over her easily, and she could nearly feel how his body simmered in angst. Frances' body tensed, ready to flee as if under attack. She forced it to relax to face him squarely.

— "I am ruthless enough to have killed my best friend, Frances !"

Why did he want her to see him like a monster ? Was it what he though of himself, or did he just want her to step away ? Frances, though, refused to hear such stupidities. Thank Dagonet for filling her in on this episode. The young woman breathed in slowly, trying to find the right words.

— "What you gave Bedivere is priceless, and this is why he asked you and no other. You have done for him what you would have wanted for you."

The scout froze in his tracks, his menacing posture melting under the fierceness of the little fairy, under the strength of her trust. That name… Bedivere. The knights avoided speaking it in his presence, they knew how deep the scar in his heart. Tentatively, Frances offered her hand once more. Her little fingers trembled, and she kept her gaze firmly fixed upon it until he relented and squeezed her hand. The contact was not as foreign as it used to be, comforting, even.

— "Your heart is in the right place, Tristan", she whispered.

The knight scoffed at that, his tone bitter as he muttered back.

— "Apparently not"

— "What ?"

Would she ever grasp the stirrings of his heart ? It didn't matter… no, it didn't. Especially if he was about to die. Rest, at last. Peace, perhaps ? Squeezing her hand one last time, he forced himself to let go and look into her wide eyes. Never before had he spoken so much, but he needed his message to get across.

— "You don't understand, Frances. I won't ask you to. Just make the right choice when the time comes, the choice that makes the most sense for the future and this damn island."

The rest of his sentence was left unsaid. 'Even … even if you make me feel alive again.' But he kept that information for himself; Tristan didn't want to burden the little fairy. Not with his well-being, not with his peace of mind. She had given so much already, to him more than others. Companionship, understanding, a little magic whenever her voice called to him … a vision of beauty when she laughed, hope… His brothers as well deserved her care, her dedication.

Suddenly, Frances invaded his personal space, her face inches from his, anger shining in her eyes. Or was it tears?

— "Don't say that! Damn it! I don't want to hear it!"

Her fists shook, her breath coming in short rasps. The fit of a woman who could not accept the truth. Eventually, she would have to shed the veil, and take a proper look at his damaged soul.

— "I only state the truth. Can you not see?"

Her eyes narrowed, her hand tentatively reaching out to touch his chest. His heart beat beneath her palm, a strong thud thud that reverberated through her open fingers. Warmth spread at her contact, a strange sense of belonging that he never thought he would feel.

— "I see a good man, Tristan! A broken man, but a good man nonetheless. For once, you are the one who is blind."

The words flew his mouth before he could filter them, and he cursed himself when her eyes widened.

— "If you'd stayed to keep me in check, maybe I'd been a better man."

The young woman staggered as if he had run a sword through her chest. They both knew she couldn't stay, and this discussion was getting too close to home. He needed to backtrack at full speed, to take her mind of the revelation that had slipped involuntarily. Tristan stepped back, putting distance between them as he tried to embed the notion into her thick skull, calling forth the rage born from his damaged soul.

— "You cried over those people, Frances. I didn't. I didn't even feel the need to!"

At the mention of the burnt village, her face turned shameful.

— "None of you have cried over it, Tristan!"

The young woman shook her head, refusing to relent. Damn her stubbornness!

— "You're all broken, don't you see? Even Galahad, especially Galahad"

Her words struck a chord; she was more perceptive than he gave her credit for. Granted, most would rather stay blind than see the truth. He wasn't used to people observing so acutely. This is the reason why, instead of storming off, he accepted her plea.

— "You just show it differently. This world is too violent for you, Tristan. I wasn't subjected to the same hardship, so we don't have the same level of sensibility. But I think you are the most sensitive of all of them, hence your harshness."

— "I'm the most ruthless of all."

How impressive he could have been, if he'd stood tall and proud, his eyes impassive, his mask carefully in place as he said those words. She might have fled, been scared away. But for once, he wanted to be seen. Her hazel eyes, enlightened by the moon, told him that she did. And then, something extraordinary happened. She wrapped her arms around him, laying her head upon his chest, her touch light as a feather. And there was nothing else he could do but embrace her back, his heart hammered so strongly that his breath came short.

It felt incredibly good, to be held without expectations, her warmth permeating through him, the soft curves of her body welcoming his strength, and weaknesses without judgement. Her touch was almost shy, but she held fast. For the first time in ages, Tristan's muscles relaxed, accepting the comfort like a gift given by the Gods. Inside his head, a little voice was screaming to release her that it was inappropriate since she was another man's betrothed. But when she pulled away, it took all of his strength not to gather her back in his arms and lever let go. The coldness of the air after her sweet presence riled him up.

— "Tristan" she said softly. "You've set walls around your heart to prevent yourself from going mad! It's a coping mechanism."

A sudden surge of anger crushed his conscience, and he grabbed her arms strongly.

— "Am I not? Mad? Look at me, woman. Tell me I am not mad!"

When he talked to Bedivere, saw him even, wasn't he entirely mad ? The ghost of his friend haunted him, and many more. Where was his snanity now ? Gone… gone with the wind, gone with the flow of the rivers. Way beyond Rome. His fingers crushed her soft flesh and he knew it would leave marks. Wasn't it demonstration enough? His inability to control his emotions, right there, right now? Frances met his gaze squarely. Albeit he could see the panic in her irises – he was powerful enough to kill her in a heartbeat – she did not back down.

— "Anger is sadness in disguise, Tristan. You have accumulated sadness for a thousand years at least."

Something snapped in his mind, and suddenly, his hands released her. Aghast, he took a step back, hoping for the world that Frances' wouldn't sport the shape of his fingers upon her lovely skin. She should remained untainted, unlike him. Yet, the greatest of wounds were not to the flesh, albeit he sported so many scars they wove a pattern on his skin.

— "You know, at home, you'd be allowed to be cured. Maybe you could have a normal life. Plenty of soldiers have suffered from survival's guilt, and other syndromes. There are solutions now"

Tristan huffed.

— "Nay. I'm too far gone now. The scars, they'll never leave."

Suddenly, the rage was back, and Tristan yanked at her arm so strongly that she yelped. The scout narrowed his eyes, his sharp features smooth like stone once more.

— "Do not give me pity, woman!" he spat. "I'm content with scorn and fear."

A heavy sigh escaped her lips, and she turned away.

— "There is nothing pitiable about you, Tristan. Nothing"

And she strode away, leaving a bewildered scout behind. As she stepped down the stairs, an intense shriek startled the guards on post as a flurry of wings passed their heads none too gently.

— "Hey Lady Hawk!" greeted Frances, her voice laced with sadness.

Her dejected tone stirred him harshly; how he hated himself! The bird answered the lady with a slight squeak before it landed on his shoulder. Seizing one of his strands with her beak, she pulled at his hair in reprimand. At last, Tristan chased her away and sighed, his eyes set once more on the greys and dark shapes of the landscape.

— "I know, Isolde. I am a fool."

* * *

[1] Based on 'Sister act 2" Happy day version.


	22. Acceptance - Reviewed

**_Hey Folks ! So this comes directly across the latest chapter. I had to cleave it in two pieces because if was getting big. Last one before the battle and I have to say, I'm rather proud of this one._**

Another day passed, another day of preparations for the battle to come. Apart from Arthur, none of the knights knew that Frances intended to fight. Or not. She still was unsure about the path to choose. Fighting alongside Arthur? With the Picts? Following the knights? Which was the road the Valar intended for her to take? The question roamed her mind all day long. When it wasn't occupied by Tristan. The scout had not shown at all during the day, and Frances found herself strangely bereft. She had gotten used to his silent presence by her side, but after last night… well, she wouldn't blame him if he never spoke to her again.

So when Galahad, Gawain and Dagonet invited her along to a training session in the late afternoon, she welcomed the distraction. They spoke of their future departure, of the grassy hills of Sarmatia, and the women they hoped to find there. Galahad even took the time to correct her posture with the bow, and show her a few tricks, especially since, being a woman, she held less strength than he did while shooting. He was sweet, so young in his manners, and so angry. But he treated her like the most prized of treasures.

Frances treaded careful, refusing a sparring match with her sword to prevent damage to her stitches. The gash was much better now, but the thread still pulled at her flesh. At worst, in two days, she should be able to rip them off if needed without dire consequences. Meaning, it would sting like bitch but not impair her fighting… much. As the knights demonstrated their skills – she was impressed, but after middle earth, nothing could faze her as much as seeing the elven twins spar – Frances gently, but surely stretched all her muscles. She aimed at improving her mobility, and getting her leg used to working properly again.

At last, it was time for dinner, and Frances wondered how Tristan would welcome her presence this very night. Would he ignore her entirely? Would he even show up ?

Since she rather liked the dress, she wore it again this evening. She'd be in breeches soon enough to fight, or flee. No. There was no way she'd leave Arthur on his own. Damn, she would be going to her death ! Stuck before a meagre mirror, Frances huffed, and pushed her hair back. Too bothersome to pin it in an elaborate do, and the heavy waves kept her warm. And hid a little of her too generous decolleteage – the only issue with that dress.

Frances arrived at the tavern on her own this time, her wobbly steps a little more assured even if the stitches still stung. The kight's table was full, and she hesitated before walking to her usual seat. Once more, she was proven wrong as Tristan accepted her beside him without a hint of tension. He had been roaming the countryside with her mp3 player, the music soothing him, bringing a smile to his lips. This device of hers really was incredible, and it gave him time to muse about their discussion. Until the blasted thing stopped functioning entirely... Would she be cross with him ? As she sat, accepting the bowl of stew from Vanora, he couln't help but spot her tense shoulders, and handed her a piece of his apple as a peace offering. Frances gave him the most dazzling smile ever, and he knew, then, that she wasn't angry.

After a quiet dinner at the tavern – most of the knights refused to repeat the hangover from their raucous celebration – lady and scout naturally made their way to the wall. Funny, how it had become their little habit in less than tree days. For a while, they stood in silence, each of them lost in their musings, replaying the conversation of the previous night. The reprieve was short-lived, as Frances scrunched her rose.

— "Smoke," came Tristan's smooth voice, confirming her suspicions.

And very soon the northern landscape lit up with dozens of campfires, sending a shiver through Frances's spine. The Saxons had laid siege, and with them came the moment of the ultimate choice. Shouts reverberated along the wall, the garrisons calling for Arthur Castus. Both scout and Keeper of Time stayed still, like two statues considering the future in the darkness. Very soon, the whole Roman garrison was standing against the wall, and one by one, Galahad, Gawain, Bors and Dagonet joined them, sitting on the steps, awaiting for Arthur to come. Lancelot was last, his dark eyes sparkling with something akin to bloodlust. The knight merely nodded to Frances and Tristan, the only ones standing, cutting quite a striking figure together. Dark braids and fiery waterfall swinging in the breeze to compensate the stillness of their silhouettes. When Arthur showed up, Frances couldn't help but snort at Guinevere. The young woman was hot on his heels, her Roman dress off her pale shoulder. Like there wasn't enough distance between their rooms and the wall to pull the strap properly. What a slut! Showing herself so blatantly in public! Ugh!

— "Sooner than expected."

Tristan's smooth voice was directed to Arthur. The commander nodded, trying to look dignified with his chemise slightly askew. Frances didn't react, deep in through. Both their calculation and estimations were short; the Saxons had been marching with the whips of their master at their ass. Merlin's words echoed in her head; this particular Saxon leader, aside from being completely nuts, seemed pushed by a malefic entity. Something akin to an enemy of the ascended. Possessed, perhaps ? It did not bode well.

The scout watched his commander and friend as his disgruntled features contemplated the inferno below: darkness, ashes, smoke and fires. Then his gaze turned to the villagers down the wall, all expectant faces, all of them looking up to him. And they were right; there was no better man than Arthur, no one who would defend them with more heart than he. And his knights. His beloved brothers in arms, his only remaining family. Tristan noticed the dejected look in his eyes as he wished them a long a fulfilling life. As he said goodbye.

He'd known it all along, of course, that Arthur wouldn't leave with them all. His continued meetings with Merlin and the Keeper of Time had taught him as much. But to hear it, to witness the pain it caused him, this steered something in Tristan. The look of surprise on the other's faces, though, was heart wrenching. As Lancelot ran after Arthur, hoping, maybe, to sway his mind, the scout realised how close the commander had become. They nearly were of even age, the two of them. They'd struggled together to keep the knights safe, and failed spectacularly, together as well whenever a new burial mount had to be built. To see him walk to his death because of that stupid goat of a Woad, well… It fuelled his anger. And he knew another blow to be coming, for Tristan had no shortage of intelligence.

The scout turned around, and slid down the steps to escape the crowded wall. Sharing a knowing glance with his brothers, he addressed them as he passed.

— "I'll see you tomorrow."

With one gesture of his hand, Frances followed him to the deserted stables. His strides were wide, his pace fast as his long legs covered the distance, not caring about the lady that matched him step for step, ignoring the pang in her thigh. His feelings were getting the better of him, his heart all over the place. All those years for nothing! To abandon the Britons to the Saxons! All his fellow brothers dead, his commander soon to be. And the fairy, the most recent light in her life, to be extinguished as well by the burning blazes?

At last, he made it to his mare's stall, and turned so abruptly that Frances almost bumped into him. The dim light painted her in the darkness, her cheekbones and full lips defined by the orange glow of the torches.

— "Anything profound to say, little fairy?"

— "We're screwed?"

Her attempt at humour chafed him the wrong way, albeit her choice of words was rather feisty for a maiden. But she was avoiding his unspoken question, and he ground out. Surely, she could give him more information than that; the little fairy had a knack for understanding the big picture.

— "Anything else?"

She sighed so profoundly that her chest shuddered. In her hazel eyes danced more than the flames of the torches, their depth almost black in the night. Regret, sadness, longing. At last, she whispered a few words for his hears only.

— "There is not much I wish to say, expect goodbye, my friend. I might see you in the afterlife."

At once, rage fuelled his body as his hands grasped her biceps. Frances winced at the harshness of his grip. The damn woman was going to launch herself in the middle of a fight she couldn't win! Startled, she lifted her wide eyes to him in a silent question.

— "You cannot, Frances. You simply cannot!" he growled.

His patience was running low, his control ebbing away for the first time in years. He was weak, tame, and depending on another's well being fuelled his rage even more. Stuck in his painful embrace, Frances tried to jest.

— "And leave Arthur on his own? Please! He'll get killed. That man had no sense of self-preservation."

This time, anger got the better of him as he shook her, yelling in her face.

— "This is no game ‼! Don't you see? This is your end!"

His hands trembled on her forearms such was the depth of his wrath. Fifteen years of killing, awaiting his freedom, the damn papers that now sat on his bed! It was supposed to be a blissful day, the first day of the rest of his life. A life with no shackles nor captain. All of it in shambles! He'd longed for it, yet didn't care once it was in his grasp. His heart was in pieces, his mind at his breaking point. Perhaps his nerves were failing him, now that the pressure had lessened. Now that he was free. But instead of relief, he got … he didn't know what he got. More death? More heartbreak and loss?

Stuck in his unrelenting grip, Frances met his gaze squarely.

— "I am not afraid of you, scout."

Her whole body shook now, her eyes challenging, her mind wary as she calculated his next move. She knew he was stronger than her, and more skilled in combat. She was at his mercy.

— "You lie," he said slowly, lips curling in distaste.

Frances shrugged.

— "Yes and no. My body considers you a threat, especially in your rightful anger. But my mind refuses to do so. I trust you with my life, Tristan."

His name rolled on her tongue so smoothly, her accent making it softer. Then her hands came to rest upon his wrists in a strangely soft gesture. For a sweet moment, Tristan closed his eyes.

— "If this is my end, then so be it, Tristan. Everything I have done here had led me to this moment. I do not deserve your anger."

Suddenly, she twisted both of his arms in a forceful move – courtesy of self-defence training at Interpol – and twirled away from him. She's used an unknown trick to free herself, her eyebrows lifted up in a smug expression.

— "I am not as defenceless as you think. I've fought bigger men, stronger men than you, monsters even. The sword is not the only way."

The scout suddenly deflated, swallowing the lump in his throat in hopes to free his chest from the weight that crushed it. It didn't work though, and he straightened his back to tower over her small frame. She was so tiny, so small compared to him, but she let him close the distance. He knew – with pride - that she could be dangerous even unarmed. His anger had not abated yet, and he considered how to solve this riddle.

— "You infuriating woman, I'll lock you up. In the fortress"

Frances shuddered.

— "Please, you know better than to keep me there, my fate would be worse than dying on the battlefield should the Saxons prevail"

Tristan's mind suddenly went blank, blood draining from his face. She was right, damn it! Better to die in battle than to be left behind, offered to the conqueror for raping and beatings. As a woman, there would be no mercy, no respite from her fate. Especially with her beautiful body! No. He couldn't fathom a man laying his hands on her! The solution popped into his mind like a snowball on Galahad's face.

— "All right. You win"

Frances' eyebrows met her hairline, her eyes wide with disbelief. Had she missed the smirk that adorned his lips ?

— "All right? You accept it?"

— "Yes. You will fight. So will I"

Blam! He'd launched his own attack, and it landed true. The young woman staggered backwards, right hand flying to her chest, her body bending as if pierced by a spear.

— "No…" came her haunted reply. "No. Please, no"

The satisfaction to have prevailed their little verbal joust was much hampered by her distress. But at least, his freedom would be put to use; he'd be here to protect her from harm.

— "Well. If you are stubborn and want to get killed, I'll fight beside you."

It was her turn to shout at him, but her anguished yell held no anger, only despair. Never before had someone pronounced his name with such emotion. Never.

— "No, Tristan, no!"

Her face had paled considerably, so much that he feared she might collapse. She was still staggering backwards, her breath stolen, and her eyes seemed to mist over.

— "You're free! Damn it, scout! Like hell I'm going to lead you to your death!"

— "Don't flatter yourself, I am deciding of my own free will. As you are. There is nothing you can do."

Struck speechless, he could only contemplate the look of utter devastation on her face as she looked for support, her arm flinging wildly by her side. He couldn't possibly fathom why his decision caused her such distress, but the effect was daunting.

— "I'll beg you if I have to"

The words barely registered in his mind before she fell to her knees, wincing as her bent knee pulled at the stiches. Horrified, the scout couldn't move, his eyes locked with her wide pleading ones.

— "Please. I beg you. As my friend, as a free man, as a Sarmatian's chieftain. Do not…"

Her voice broke with emotion, and Tristan's chest constricted painfully. Her show of respect stunned him; had she no pride, to kneel before him like a slave to its master ? In his fifteen years of service, he had never accepted such humiliation. But to see her, dejected, her eyes brimming with tears as she literally BEGGED… He just couldn't handle it. So he extended his hand.

— "Don't do that, little fairy, I'm not worth it"

Her eyes coloured with anger.

— "Tell this to your tribesmen ! Tell this to your father. Tell them that your life is not worth begging for !"

His voice wavered slightly, and Tristan's tongue darted over his lower lip, his arm trying to reach her.

— "Not by the Keeper of Time"

— "By anyone !", she shouted, before her voice became just a whisper. "Anyone, me included."

Frances' haunted eyes tore at his heart, her trembling more obvious now. Eventually, he approached her like a wounded animal, setting his hand on her shoulder, keeping the rest of him inaccessible in case she retaliated. His calloused fingers came to rest upon the creamy skin of her collarbone, where the dress dipped to reveal her beautiful curves. The contact shook her out of her painful trance, and she barely gave him a glance before grasping his hand. The scout heaved her weight easily, and was thus surprised when she launched herself against his chest.

Tristan was so tense that he barely refrained from pushing her away. But her intention was not to harm. Crushing him in a tight hug, she buried her fiery head in his tunic without shame. The long waves of her reddish hair fell on her back like a curtain, shielding her from his eyes as his arms shyly surrounded her. The knight was aware of the very few layers of material that separated them. His shirt only, and her dress; his leather vest, opened, enclosed them in a cocoon of privacy. Not so much, for a man used to wear a heavy armour all the time. Her shaking caused him to embrace her fully, hoping to share his body warmth. It was for naught, though, as her trembling had nothing to do with the cold. She was warm against him, eyes squeezed tight, like a child who refuses to see a painful scene, her grip insanely strong. Once more, Tristan could only marvel at the sensation of her body against his, and he brought his arms a little closer, his embrace a little stronger, her hair tumbling over his sleeves.

— "This is full-scale battle, Tristan.", she mumbled in his chest. "We're outnumbered so badly it feels like Morannon[1] all over again… There is only one way it can end!"

The young woman pulled away slightly, and Tristan stared in her eyes. She was so close, her breath fanning upon his collarbone. Surely she couldn't care for him the way he cared for her ? What would happen, if he dipped his head and… ? No. He needed a distraction.

— "You survived, last time, didn't you?", he said.

— "It was different," she breathed, taking a step back.

Out of reach. Disappointment had no time to settle as she snaked her fingers around his face. The scout froze, a moan stuck in his throat. Tristan was not foreign to a woman's touch; plenty of tavern wenches had dared doing so. But her caress was so different, so shy, so full of light. Reassuring and very soft, like a feather upon his skin. His whole body sagged when she let go; how he longed to kiss her truly, his own lips caressing her tongue, grazing her skin. It took all of his restrain not to give in to the urge. He would lose her respect and her friendship. No matter what happened, he loathed the very idea of her walking away. So he endured. She was silent now, her eyes unsure, arms crossed on her chest. For sure, they didn't hide the comely swell of her cleavage.

Tristan swallowed nervously. He needed a distraction.

— "What happened?" he eventually asked.

Frances gulped, her gaze getting lost in the memory. He knew that look, he'd seen it many times on his brothers' face, and probably sported it himself from time to time.

— "I should have died. Our odds were terrible on Morannon. 6,000 against 60,000 at least, if not more"

Tristan addressed her a shocked look. He'd never witnessed such a full-scale battle in all his years of service.

— "60,000", he whispered, disbelief laced in his voice.

Not that he didn't believe her, but such an army… There were talks, legends about the Persian that attacked the Greeks a long time ago with numbers equivalent to those. And to think that his little fairy had stood amongst the tiny group, facing those odds… A shiver ran down his spine as she went on:

— "Aye. I lost the count. I would have died if… Legolas had not sent me back to save my life. But he couldn't join me, he would die in on earth, so I went back home, alone, and the magic repaired me so that I could live. This is why I have no scars"

Her could almost hear her heart break as she struggled to recount her tale. His hand squeezed her shoulder gently. He was starting to wonder if Frances' betrothed wasn't dead. For how could he possibly survive such odds? Tristan wasn't one to sugar coat reality, and for once, he almost wished he did he knew how to. The words came out before he could attempt something more diplomatic.

— "Are you sure he is alive?"

The young woman sent him a harsh glare; he didn't blame her fit of temper. Removing his hand from her shoulder, he saw her body shiver. Her statement, though, only called incredulity.

— "Yes, he lives still. We won the battle."

— "How?"

This time, a slight smile quirked her lips. Good. If she was getting her wit back, his heart would stoop bleeding for her.

— "A friend cast a ring into a volcano."

— "Eh?"

Frances smiled frankly at his disgruntled face. What kind of an answer was that?

— "Long story short. The ring was a magical token. Big evil 2[2] was eradicated, the beasties working for him got lost in a massive earthquake. And I lost my beloved,"

Tristan frowned deeply. She was reverting to her odd manner of speech, and he didn't understand half of it.

— "Beasties? What are you talking about? And why couldn't he join you?"

Frances's nose scrunched slightly, the way it did whenever she was concentrating on something. It was amazing how her facial expressions were so easily readable to him, how she didn't hide from his questioning gaze. Her mask has slipped many nights before, only to return whenever others showed up. In public, she was the Keeper of Time. With him, just Frances.

— "The dark lord's legions were not human, hence the beasties. As for Legolas, his physiology is not adapted to earth. The magic of his home place is what allows him to live. I know he didn't get hurt in battle, he is honestly next to unbeatable. But he might fade away from my absence"

Tristan's sharp intake of breath told her he was shocked beyond imagination. She wondered why she had thrown all those notions in his face. Of course, he wanted to know. Deserved to know, even. But he was a fifth-century warrior; how much could he take before mental breakdown? Honestly, not that she thought about it, the nervous breakdown was probably already accounted for. His eyes were boring holes into her, searching for fallacy, and finding none. The scout seemed to ponder whether she was absolutely nuts before his curiosity won over.

— "Frances. What kind of place on earth was that?"

— "Not earth. Another world, Arda. Created by the Valar, the people I indirectly work for."

Tristan nodded, and Frances marveled at the flexibility of his mind. His next question, though, puzzled her. Trust the scout to find the capital information.

— "And your betrothed is there…. Is he even human?"

A sigh escaped her lips. How she missed him, her bright Legolas, in this despairing world! How she longed to have him by his side in this battle, his twin blades twirling around to deal death to his enemies. Modern earth was a hard place to live in. But fifth century Briton came close to her personal hell. But even with the gaping hole resting in her chest, she was lucky to have found Tristan. Somehow, he soothed the ache a little.

— "No. Legolas is no human. He is an elf, and has seen more than five hundred winters already; I just hope he doesn't die because of me."

— "An elf…"

— "Yeah. Immortal, weightless – he can walk over snow – agile as a cat, a badass warrior. And his skin glows, yes. Like a beacon of light"

Stunned by her revelations, Tristan let her go. And she drifted away from the stall, lost in her memories, the cascade of fire brushing her hips. The gait of a princess, for aside from being an immortal being, Legolas was a prince. There was no competing, how could he? Out of respect, he would not seek her out, even before death. She deserved better than him, and had found it. It was just a matter of keeping her alive so that she could get back to her elf. One quick glance in the stables told him that she was gone.

Tristan's hand roamed across his horse's flanks, fingers grazing at the soft fur in a soft motion. The scarce light gave him some space for thinking, the graceful caress soothing his mind. Time seemed to flow, and Tristan knew he ought to get some rest, but his thoughts refused to relinquish control. All this time, he'd thought Frances a fairy, but he understood now. Her betrothed was the fairy, she only being his intended. A princess to his kingdom, she would become. The warrior sighed, his chest tightening at the thought of her married to another. He, for one, was not worth her affection. When she would leave, he'd get back to his lonely life, with animals as companions. Speaking of which, he wondered where his hawk was, and his eyes lifted absently to the window.

— "Tristan"

The scout almost jumped, startled by Dagonet's greeting. The older knight frowned slightly; he'd never been able to sneak up on Tristan. This was the first occurrence, and it worried him greatly. Should he talk to him about what he'd overheard as they yelled at each other? Or let him brood in solitude? Eventually, the tall knight made his decision.

— "I'm sorry that her heart lies elsewhere. It is not often that you find your match."

Tristan snorted derisively.

— "She outmatches me by a world, and so does her betrothed."

Self-loathing and despair. How had it come to that? Dagonet's eyes shone with determination as he came close.

— "Surely not on the battlefield"

— "Do not be fooled, Dagonet. I think this creature of hers could kick my ass to hell and back."

Dagonet shook his head. He didn't understand why Tristan would mention her intended as a creature, but the expression surprised him.

— "To hell and back?"

A trademark smirk graced Tristan's expression, but even in the faint light, his brother knight could see how strained it was.

— "So she says. An expression of hers"

— "She has the utmost respect for you," he stated, remembering the daggers Frances had glared at Galahad at the tavern.

Tristan's hand paused on the flanks of his horse, and he rested his braided head on the animal. He'd never seemed so tired, even after days of scouting. Silence stretched, and Dagonet was about to take his leave when the scout's voice stopped him in his tracks. It was muffled, and not once, Tristan lifted his head to glance at him, as if, hidden in the embrace of his horse, he could voice the unspeakable; his feelings.

— "She does not see her worth. Her light, her mind, her spirit; everything about her outmatches me. Should I live ten hundred years I'd never reach her wisdom and depth of heart. I hope she finds her sun, so that she can be happy. I… I could only bring darkness in her life."

There was so much sadness in Tristan's usual smooth voice that Dagonet felt like cursing the woman. But he couldn't; she was everything that Tristan said, and even more. Frances couldn't fight her nature; she was a beacon of kindness in this harsh world. No wonder that people were burnt by her flame, especially one so deprived of brightness than the scout. Eventually, Tristan straightened, and his usual aloofness shone in his amber eyes once more.

— "I can't have her, Dagonet. Not now, nor ever. She has given her heart, and I will abide by her wishes."

The tall knight nodded; new respect found for his silent comrade.

— "Yet you will fight with her?"

— "I will fight to ensure she gets to reunite with her soulmate. At least, she will have a chance to be happy."

The rest went unsaid. Tristan craved no happiness for himself; he didn't deserve it.

Frances' wobbly steps led her away from the stables, her heart clenching in pain at the realisation that she might never see Legolas again. If she died tomorrow, she could only hope that Aragorn and the Greenwood people would manage to lessen the blow. Would King Thrandhuil manage to fill the gap ? Her thigh ached from all the walking, a stitch had ripped as she followed Tristan's hasty retreat to the stables. Tristan… Frances lifted her eyes to the starless sky. Would the Valar hear her prayer? To prevent the scout from falling in battle, because of her? Wasn't it enough to lose her betrothed? Would destiny be cruel enough to seize the scout in its clutches as well?

Too tired for anger, the young woman could only taste the irony of her plight. One knight she saved, another one she condemned. Suddenly, a hand landed on her arm. Whirling around in a flurry of skirts, the young woman twisted her attacker's wrist and stepped back to give momentum to her move. The man stumbled on his knees.

— "Ow! OW!" he yelled as he collided with the harsh cobblestones.

Lancelot stared at her from the ground, his dark eyes rounded like saucers at the aïkido move she'd just floored him with. Releasing her grip, she pulled him to his feet hastily.

— "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Oh Gods, I'm sorry."

The dark-haired knight rubbed his abused wrist, eyeing the young lady with wary eyes. He'd never seen her so flustered, and he could swear that he's seen tears in her eyes. She looked exhausted, defeated. Not unlike his own frame of mind.

— "You are certainly more dangerous than I gave you credit for," he ground.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she dipped her chin, chastened by her actions.

— "Thank you. Er. Sorry, again. Do not surprise me, I have a few reflexes by now…"

— "By now…"

Lancelot mused on her words.

— "How long have you been fighting, Frances?"

She did the math in her head, starting from her internship at Interpol, to the missions through the stargate, including her time in middle earth.

— "Not so long, roughly seven years and a half"

Lancelot nodded, his eyes conveying respect to the woman.

— "Half of my time serving the Romans then"

— "Yeah. And yours it at end"

This time, the knight wouldn't fight the fit of despair that washed through him.

— "And you will fight alongside Arthur."

— "Yes"

It was but a whisper, one he couldn't help but overhear. Not that he ignored it; Arthur had told him so.

— "Come, Lady Frances. Let us get back to our quarters. Both you and I need some rest."

— "Yes. You wouldn't happen to know how to remove stitches, would you?"

His answer was a little tense, and she did not insist.

— "I'd rather not…"

— "Never mind, I'll do it myself."

Lancelot nodded, and offered his arm to the lady. For once, the knight didn't seem in a flirty mood, and it felt quite good, the little bit of human comfort that he gave her. Despite his womanising ways, Lancelot was a decent person. One that challenged Arthur tooth and nail, backing him in a corner more often than not, forcing him to dig deeper into his beliefs. His friendship was probably one of the reasons Arthur was the great man he had become today. They did not exchange pleasantries, nor idle chat about what was to come. Both of their hearts too heavy to converse about anything other than death, and heartbreak. Slowly, the dark knight and the lady passed through the fort, like a pair of shadows, ignoring the panicked people hurrying in the streets.

When at last, Lancelot let her go, Frances realised that she faced Bors's door. As he turned away, she stopped him by seizing his sleeve.

— "Thank you, Lancelot. You are a good man, a man worth knowing. I am glad I have met you."

His dark eyes widened slightly, before he answered.

— "Likewise, Lady Frances. You have my gratitude for saving Dagonet, and Gawain."

Frances bowed her head to him.

— "You will look after Arthur for me, right?"

— "I will certainly do my best."

And then, the knight bent forward, and kissed her. It was but a forceful peck, as quick as lightning, so much that she didn't even know what his lips tasted like. Lancelot smirked at her stunned expression, and turned on his heels right away. It took her a few seconds to react, an indignant shout echoing in the corridor.

— "Lancelot!"

Laughter answered her from afar.

— "Sorry. I had to do it!"

The sound of his footsteps disappeared as his door clang shut. That damn knight! He was insufferable, but she was glad to have been able to say goodbye. Albeit she'd preferred a hug to… this! She hoped Tristan would never hear of it… he might very well kill his brother in defence of her virtue. And Legolas… well, Legolas would probably laugh at her dumbfounded expression. The elf knew that her heart belonged to him anyway.

* * *

[1] Also known as the battle of the black gate, in the Lord of the Rings.

[2] Frances dubbed Sauron 'Big Evil 2' knowing that 'Big evil 1' was Morgoth, its master.


	23. Tristan - Reviewed

**_Hey. For those who are not afraid of a little sport, I have been thinking about this ever since Tobiramamara said this: Tristan deserved some happiness, or at least one good adventure underneath the sheets before death would meet him. So you have her to thank for regarding this unplanned addition! Damn, I'll have to change my rating!_**

**_For those who have issues with smut, you can skip to the next chapter and it won't change a thing, scenario-wise. Cheers_**

He had not even bothered to knock such was the late hour. His intend was simple; to return the little device to her bedside and disappear altogether. Stealthy like a scout, he saw no reason to wake her up. A single ray of moonshine illuminated the room, the curtain half dragged over the opening. Not that he needed it; Tristan could have found his way in the dark. But it gave him a very unique sight, one he would never forget. Frances was curled in the covers, long strands falling haphazardly upon her face and upper back. Tristan took a few silent steps forward, leaving the mp3 on the nightstand before retreating. Or such was his intention until he noticed her expression. Even in sleep, a slight frown marred her forehead. She was worried, with excellent reason.

Tristan had long ago accepted his death in battle. But Frances couldn't possibly have. And if she died, her betrothed would fade, her family despair. So many depended on her. So much to lose… The scout crouched by her side, his breaths even to avoid waking her. His conscience was yelling at him, in very chosen terms, to leave now. But his eyes couldn't detach from her form. Curled on her side, one hand supporting her head, Frances looked every bit the little fairy. The silvery rays created a set of shadows upon her silhouette, her full lips hidden under a stray strand of reddish hair, the curls unfurling over like a blanket. She was so beautiful, so innocent … and very much naked! Eyes widening in the dim light, Tristan realised that her skin was bare under the waterfall of her hair. Didn't the damn woman wear a shift ? She'd probably shifted in her sleep, chasing the cover away from her lovely shoulder.

In a gesture unusually tender, the scout picked the scratchy wool and pulled it slowly over her form, mindful not to let his fingers graze over her offered skin. How he longed to touch her, to caress the smooth expense of her shoulder and collarbone! But resist he must lest he dishonoured her!

— "Tristan?"

A set of hazel eyes met his, confused, yet appeased by his presence. How trustful, that she wouldn't lash out or shy away when he intruded on her sleep, touched her without permission. Especially in those troubled times.

— "You'll get cold if you uncover yourself," he chastised her.

The young woman slightly shifted, as if to meet him.

— "I am always cold here," she whispered.

His face was but inches from hers, her eyes set on his face, begging him. For companionship, reassurance, for love or friendship. So close that her breath fanned on his face, that her hair nearly mingled with his unruly braids. Resisting with all his might, Tristan retreated, shedding his leather vest to drape it over her body.

— "There," he said, his hand gently pushing her shoulder below the garment so that she would lie back down.

— "Still cold," she slurred.

Was she even awake? Tristan shook his head; her intoxicating scent was driving him crazy and he needed to escape. Fast. Just as he was about to retreat, her hand shot up, grabbing his wrist. The scout lowered himself in an awkward position, one of his knees balancing his body on the mattress.

— "Little fairy," he ground out in warning.

Frances straightened on the bed, the covers forgotten, revealing the strange undergarment that covered her breasts. It took all of his willpower to avert his eyes. A mighty temptress she was! Then she prowled forward on her knees, one of her hands reaching for his cheek. Tristan shuddered as her breath caressed his face.

— "If I'm dying tomorrow, I refuse to spend a miserable night."

There was a glint in her eyes, something akin to desperation. Any honourable knight would have pushed her away. Arthur would have, knowing the reasons that motivated her. But Tristan had no qualms; he'd attained his breaking point, chivalry be damned! The knight reached for her nape, his grip so strong that she couldn't have resisted. Pulling away, though, couldn't have been further away from her mind as she flung herself forward. Her lips crashed onto his with such passion that Tristan stumbled backwards, dragging her body in his lap. His world tumbled upside down, his mind blank. But in matters of the heart, the spirit held no sway. Her tongue brushed his lips, begging for entrance. Never before had Tristan been so happy to relent.

His hands had a will of their own as they roamed her barely covered body. Her skin was so smooth, so soft under his calloused fingers that he almost felt self-conscious. Almost. He couldn't get enough of her. His lips kissed and nibbled, his hands caressed every bit of her, fingers digging into the silky waves of her hair. Frances moulded around him, against him, driving him crazy. Her thighs enclosed him in the circle of her presence, her hips so tempting above his. His shirt was discarded by her deftly hands and the contact of her skin upon his chest was enough to make him gasp. So sweet, so soft, so warm… her fingers massaged his nape and shoulders as she devoured his mouth. One moment of clarity was all it took for him to flip her over, his breeches the only garment left upon his body. Her appreciative smile touched him as much as the heated glint in her eyes; she obviously loved what she saw. The fear he instiled in people prevented women from seeing how handsome he really was, and it never bothered him. Until Frances. But she saw him, body and soul, and the present she was offering now was priceless. A token of truth, a token of love.

The young woman got rid of her strange undergarments herself, unveiling her magnificent body for him to gaze upon. Tristan paused, mesmerised by the beauty of her pearly skin covered by reddish curls. Full breasts, narrow waist and rounded hips cored with efficient muscles. She was every bit the fairy he imagined her to be.

— "It is cold, Tristan," she purred.

His breeches were discarded with haste, and she pulled him in the circle of her open thighs at once. His throbbing desire pulsated against her bare flesh as she kissed him once more, tongue coating his mouth with her enthralling taste. Her arms circled him, her hands roaming his scarred back, little fingers sending tingles all over his bare skin. The contrast of the cold air compared to her touch created trails of fire, and the rise of her hips to meet him was enough to make him crazy. Tristan tried to reign his desire, to prevent from plunging into her depths like a wild animal. She was so intoxicating ! Never before had a woman be so willing so pull him in. Tristan's mouth migrated from her lips, eliciting a disappointed sigh before he dived for her neck, suckling at the soft skin. Frances moaned, arching her whole body to give him a better access. The friction of her hips against his was almost too much to bear and Tristan gasped in pleasure. What came next…

He was a man, a warrior, and he had always been in control. It was his gift; to be the one in charge. But Frances had other views as she arched her hips once more, capturing the tip of his manhood into her folds. He just had to push himself in, sliding in her wet core with a grunt of pleasure. Her hips rolled once more, her knees pulling at him, and Tristan found himself fully sheathed without even knowing how it had happened. The feeling of her warm flesh pulsating around him, though, exceeded his wildest dreams. The tightness of her muscles was so different from the tavern wenches; she almost felt like virgin. The long, sensual moan that escaped his lips was answered by her own sigh of pleasure. A communion.

Soon, very soon, they were but a couple dancing the most sensual of dances under the covers. Joined as one, her body heaving to find his, her back arched in pleasure, her hips following his every move, meeting him, encouraging him. Never before had his lips feasted upon such a tasteful lady, never before had his senses been so overridden that his control was thrown down the gutter. Never before had he known such completion, such bliss that his breath was taken away. His climax took him by surprise, an explosion so brutal, so powerful that a hearty groan escaped his lips. Writhing below him, Frances couldn't refrain her moans. Her arms spasmed around his shoulders, her hand grasping his neck tightly, pulling him with impressive strength as she muffled her cries on the flesh of his shoulder. The wave kept them high for a long moment, his thrusts long and deep as he tried to join their bodies, she encircling him with her legs. Who said that physical love was unholy?

There was no talk after this; what could possibly be said ? Frances kissed him gently again, her tenderness so overwhelming that his eyes misted over. When Tristan fell asleep, his body intertwined with hers, he swore that he'd never been this happy.

He was wrong, for he realised that nothing could rival the feeling of waking up beside his little fairy. Their combined body heat had created a bubble of warmth, her skin soft against his, her presence much sweeter than the scratchy sheets. Dawn was near, and he nuzzled her neck. Very soon, they would have to prepare for battle. For the moment though, Tristan basked in the sensation of her body against his. His lips gently kissed every inch of skin available, playfully, slowly. His beard was a tad too long, leaving a rash upon her lovely skin. He would have to cut it shorter if…

Albeit her eyes did not open, Frances' breathing changed. She was awake. And her reaction was more heated than anticipated. Shifting sensually against the length of his body, the young woman wove her fingers in his hair and turned around. She proceeded to kiss him senseless, leaving him so stunned that he could not remember north from south. Then she pushed him back under the covers, caressing the skin of his chest slowly, her lips bestowing kisses on the fur that marred his skin, hands roaming the broad expense of his scarred flesh. She explored him, slowly, sensually, her tongue tracing scars here and there, studying, worshipping his body like no one had ever done.

It didn't take long for him to long for more, his hips rising from anticipation; it took even less for Frances to guide him inside of her with a moan. Tristan started, the wave of pleasure so sudden that his body arched, hands reaching for her small waist. Surely this was a dream, for he'd never known a woman so ready to accept him without the reward of a coin. But the expression of rapture on her face wasn't faked, and when her deep chocolate eyes found his, he could only stare in disbelief.

She rode him sensually, controlling her every move, letting him contemplate the loveliness of her features as she pleasured him. Wonder gleamed in his eyes as he gazed upon his little fairy. His hands roamed her body forcefully, fingers relishing in the softness of her skin, the roundness of her hips. Until he couldn't handle his passivity anymore and sat upright to circle her with his arms. His lips found hers once more, their dance intensifying as the light became stronger. Dawn. Soon, very soon, but not now! Tristan's hands massaged her thighs, her hips, his fingers caressing her spine, grabbing her shoulders, circling her waist as he pulled her further down into him. As if they could, for a moment, become one. How he loved that woman! How he wanted her! Wanted to hear her cries, wanted to kiss every inch of her. Frances plunged her gaze into his eyes, the heat so intense that it would have burnt a lesser man. But not Tristan.

The familial tightening in his lower belly told him he was close, too close. But then, so was she. Her hair fell wildly around her shoulders and breast, loose strands creating a space for both of them, to enclose their mutual love and admiration in a silken cocoon.

— "I love you," she murmured in his ear. "I love you, Kristan."

Kristan? His hair seemed strangely lighter, shorter as well. It stuck awkwardly as Frances roamed her hand on his skull, massaging, caressing, enjoying the feel of this lighter version of himself. There were no braids, only silken strands of brown and ash that fell into his eyes as she pulled him to her. For he felt different. Less angry, more joyful, as if he'd lived a different life. Frances' orgasm washed over them like a tidal wave, strong and slow, blowing everything away. Tristan was swept off his feet, falling heavily on the bed, taking her with him. All control forgotten as he tightened his hold upon his lady, his body responding to hers as a heavy groan escaped him, hips raising to sheathe himself to the hilt. Frances collapsed on top of him, panting heavily, a dreamy smile on her lips. She was so beautiful in bliss!

A screech echoed loudly at the window, and his eyes opened brusquely. Tristan groaned. Dawn was upon them … him! For beside him, no one slept. Coldness crept into his bones, the familiar setting of his room greeting his morning. Alone, leather jacket resting beside his armour, the mp3 player sitting by his beside. The scout's heart clenched. A dream … just a dream. For a while, Tristan tried to linger into its recesses, trying to remember how happy, how beautiful love could be. He committed this feeling to memory, stowing it in a precious corner of his mind. Then, he pushed himself up. Battle was upon them. It was time.

And who the hell was this Kristan ?


	24. Godspeed - Reviewed

**_And yay! I've passed a thousand readers today. But apart from my faithful Koba, not a single review on this latest chapter. I hope you like this one better then._**

Dawn and its various shades of grey. Guinevere had left early to paint herself blue, and lead her charge with the Woads. Picts! With the Picts. One last piece of bread was his breakfast, along with a slice of cheese and a few nuts. He needed the energy, but it was never good to feast before the battle. Arthur contemplated the room he had occupied at the fort, wondering if he would ever see it again. No matter what happened, his actions meant more today than they had for the past fifteen years. It was a pity that he would have to face the only battlefield he chose without his brothers. But not alone.

As if to remind him of it, Frances suddenly barged in. Leather plates on her back, cheeks flushed, her chest was heaving.

— "Sorry, Arthur. I was afraid you'd be gone already."

The former commander's green eyes widened slightly.

— "No. I was about to put on my own armour."

— "Right. No one quite told me when to show up so…"

Suddenly, her attire clicked in his mind.

— "You do not intend to fight, do you?"

The young woman scoffed, her expression incredulous.

— "What! You thought I came to the planning strategies just for the fun of it?"

Addressing her a stern look, the commander was spooked to see her unfazed. She was getting better at resisting his commanding presence, and it was not great news.

— "No, I thought Merlin wanted to talk to you, to get your support."

— "I'm just a girl, Arthur. I'm not an army. My support doesn't mean squat if I don't fight."

Arthur fell back on his chair, feeling suddenly, very tired. How gullible he had been, to think that she would stay behind in the forest!

— "This is why you should leave."

— "Of course. I'll go and knit a new scarf."

Arthur's green eyes bulged out, caught off guard by the irony of her statement. Perhaps it would be better to say goodbye.

— "Well, then…"

— "Don't be dumb, Arthur. I can fight, and I will. If you don't want me to be at your side, I'll be with the Picts. Now, I'd feel safer beside you."

Arthur stood up, dismissing her good-natured insults to observe her. She had, after all, saved one of her knights twice, and could be fearsome when her wrath unleashed. And even if he towered over her, her eyes held rightful fury.

— "I am the Keeper of Time. I will fight for you, and your knights to the death, to ensure your future is as it should be."

Arthur's answer came out like an automatic response, sadness and relief etched onto his features.

— "My knights are free. They will fight no more"

— "Yeah … whatever"

Before he could retort, Tristan passed the threshold of his private rooms without knocking. He, too, was clad in his battle armour, a far cry from the shaggy leather he usually took on missions. This one meant business, and made him every inch the formidable warrior that he was. In his hand, a helmet he knew well.

— "So will I," came his smooth voice.

Arthur gaped at him as Frances' uttered a sad laugh. The scout turned his attention to the young lady, his eyebrow lifted in silent interrogation.

— "Never mind," she said curtly. "Good timing,"

Good timing indeed, especially as she asserted her conviction that his brothers in arms would, indeed, second him in the fight. How much more did she know? There were no more words exchanged between scout and lady, but a lengthy conversation seemed to occur. At last, Frances' eyes dropped in defeat, and Tristan handed her the helmet. Arthur watched the situation unfold, stunned by their silent communication. No wonder the woman had a knack for putting him off balance if she associated with the likes of Tristan. The presence of his scout by his side was as much a relief as it was fearsome.

Behind him, he could see Frances shake her head from left to right. At last, Tristan lost his patience and ground out.

— "Do as I say, woman, or I will kill you myself."

Instead of cowering, Frances' golden-brown eyes were set ablaze by rightful anger.

— "Your kind words warm me up," she retorted.

Arthur's eyes widened slightly. No one spoke to Tristan so snarkily; most feared him, or loathed him enough to stay out of his way. He wondered how the already irked scout would respond to her sarcastic challenge.

— "Would you rather I tie you up in a tree?"

A not so subtle threat. Switching strategy, Frances eyed the helmet cautiously before asking the much-dreaded question.

— "Whose helmet was it?"

Tristan's eyebrow rose behind his mane of shaggy hair.

— "You can't help it, eh? Asking questions?"

— "Aren't you grumpy this fair morning…"

The former commander almost choked on his mouthful of cheese. If his conscience asked him to intervene, his rational mind told him to stay out of it. Obviously, Frances had won some kind of Tristan immunity, but God knew what could happen if he jumped in the middle of this particular fight. Surely the Saxons would be more merciful than this bunch of thickheads. He understood, now, Lancelot's words about Tristan taking a shine to Frances. No one talked down to the scout, and survived.

A heavy sigh escaped Tristan's lips, and he left the helmet in Frances' hands without a word before storming off, leaving a bewildered commander behind. Eventually, Frances approached him, pointing to the headpiece.

— "Do you know whose helmet it was?"

Arthur nodded, recognizing the design at once.

— "His little cousin, he died not one year after they arrived. The size should be right"

— "Well. I have a little head, even if it's full."

The young woman turned the piece of armour around, her eyes lost in the contemplation with an unreadable look. Arthur couldn't help but pry a little, still quite unsure about the scene he had just witnessed.

— "Tristan is very protective of you."

This time, her haze eyes met his, the sadness unveiled for him to see.

— "Unfortunately, yes"

The commander set his hand upon her leather-clad shoulder, hoping to convey some reassurance.

— "Tristan is my best fighter."

— "Sometimes, it isn't enough."

And her eyes glazed over, probably musing about a friend lost in battle.

— "We are in the hands of God from now on."

Frances couldn't help but quote Gimli's remark as they stood upon the Hornburg's wall, awaiting their ten thousand Uruks.

— "Right. I hope he has good friends."

A mouthful of cheese and wine later, Frances made her way to the stables. They were all here, the knights of the round table, cloaks on their backs, not a shred of armour on their shoulders. Free at last! For the first time, she wondered if they would return to Arthur, if her dream would come to pass. Right now, it seemed that everything was crumbling down. Perhaps if what her fear speaking.

Galahad was the first to spot her, and his face instantly drew a frown.

— "Frances. Why do you wear an armour? Are you expecting us to encounter resistance on the road? Should we clad ourselves?"

All eyes settled on her, Lancelot acknowledging her with a nod. He knew the answer to that, and unbeknownst to her, so did Dagonet. But it was Gawain, sweet, well-tempered Gawain that nailed it.

— "You intend to fight"

There was not disappointment nor awe in his voice, resignation only. All of the knights, he was the one who tended to accept things as they were.

— "I come to say goodbye."

Heavy silence descended in the stables, and for a moment, she thought Galahad was about to explode. But he kept his temper in check, impressing her with his newfound wisdom, and asked her instead if she would ride with them for a little while before… Frances winced; she couldn't take the disappointment in his eyes, and chose to lighten the mood.

— "Nay, pup. My ride sports a ridiculous Roman armour, and would be very pissed at me if I didn't show up."

Bors laughed at her description of Arthur, although his voice was a little high pitched. The discussion lasted a moment, the knights saying goodbye, each in their own way. Gawain gave her a one-armed hug, and a pat on the back, while Galahad crushed the very life out of her. Bors only grabbed her forearm, and she was glad for it because she didn't want to be broken to pieces before the battle started. Lancelot she greeted from afar, and glared at the smirk that flourished in his lips as his eyes twinkled.

— "There'll be hell to pay, knight," she yelled at him as he disappeared from the stables, laughing all the way.

Gawain followed Lancelot, sending her a nod, unfazed by the heated exchange between them.

— "Wait, guys, where is Tristan?" came Galahad's voice.

Bors's shout reached them from outside.

— "Out there, his horse's gone. He'll join us on the way, come."

Eventually, Dagonet's hand landed on her shoulder, and he gave her the helmet she had conspicuously hidden in Tristan's stall.

— "Be safe, lady knight. And if you can, look after him."

His words left her speechless, and when Dagonet crushed her against his side with a one arm hug, tears fell from her eyes.

— "Have a long and blessed life, Dagonet. You deserve it," she responded; eyes set on the ground.

The knight lifted her chin with his finger, wiping a tear off her cheek.

— "I might very well have it, thanks to you. Farewell"

And then, the knight mounted his horse, and Frances was left behind in an empty stable, a long dead warrior's helmet clutched in her fingers.

There were all here, the knights of the round table, minus the scout. But nothing exceptional in that. Any moment now, he'd join them on the road to freedom. Upon the hill, gazing at his retreating brothers, Arthur sat proudly atop his warhorse. Clad in shining armour, Frances standing by his side, he looked every bit the proud commander of the wall. The dragon banner flew in the wind, the sky darkened by heavy smoke that smelt like hell. Yet a ray of sunlight shone upon Arthur, and the knights contemplated their friend, eyes filled with awe. At last, Bors galloped in his direction, only stopping to yell a tremendous 'Rus !' that echoed along the valley. For a while, everything was silent, Arthur the epitome of a vengeful angel as the wagons creaked behind them, making their way out of Britain.

And then, Arthur lifted his banner, yelling back at them with the force of a leader, the presence of a commander, the strength of a King. A loud, echoing battle cry in tribute to their sacrifices, the Sarmatian 'Rus'. And a feminine voice joined him as well, Frances unseating her sword, her blade catching the light as her fiery hair shone atop her head. Her cry was powerful, much more than they expected, underlying Arthur's voice. Their answer brought tears to Galahad' eyes, and the young knight shook his head.

— "It is so sad, that she would choose to ride to her death when she had brought us joy"

Gawain's calm voice grounded him as his blue eyes contemplated the incredible sight of Arthur and Frances joined together atop the hill.

— "Have faith, Galahad. The woman knows what she is doing. How many times have we done that ourselves, uh?"

Lancelot, his eyes misted over, could only contemplate the ground as he left behind his closest friend. And then something incredible happened. Another horse sprang from the trees, joining Arthur atop the hill. Gawain blinked twice, recognizing the Hawk on the scout's fingers.

— "Tristan", he breathed.

— "What is he doing up there?"

The scout lifted his arm in the air, releasing the bird who left him with a piercing cry. It plummeted down the hill, passing through their ranks in a flurry of feathers before soaring to the sky. A heartfelt goodbye that left them speechless. Tristan's goodbye. Another one of them going to his death. It was too much to bear, and Lancelot couldn't help but feel that he had forsaken his calling to run away like a squirrel. Turning to the others, he taunted them playfully.

— "Doesn't it irk you that a hundred pounds girl and our scout get to fight beside Arthur and we don't?'

Uphill, said girl was eyeing Tristan atop his horse, greeting him with a nod. She'd heard his words to Lady Hawk, freeing her, and her heart clenched painfully. She hoped with all her might that the bird would come back to its master after the battle. Helmet in hand – she'd wait the latest possible moment to wear it – she turned around to the Saxon army.

— "Well, I've faced worst odds", she mumbled sarcastically.

Arthur stared down at her, surprised etched on his features.

— "You have?"

The tone of his voice indicated that he, for one, had not. It probably was the first and last time that Frances would have an advantage over him; a hardly fair one, for middle earth war of the ring had created batshit crazy situations. And the elves had been a nice addition to their army. More efficient than Woads… Seeing that she had caught Arthur's attention, Frances elaborated.

— "Yeah. Twice. The first was worse, though. 300 against 10,000, but on the other hand, we had a good fortress to protect us. Until the wall blew up… We should be all right"

— "Well, that is … reassuring"

Frances nodded, not quite sure what to make of her comparison. Was she more, or less terrified than at Helm's deep? How she wished for Aragorn and Legolas to be by her side, like that fated day. Hell, even Gimli would have reassured her. And she wouldn't say no to elven archers as well, and Haldir. Poor Haldir, who'd died on the wall. Frances shuddered, chasing from her mind the thought of the dead marchwarden. Unconsciously, the young woman reached for the tender spot on her thigh; the wound reminding her how lucky she'd been in the battle of the Hornburg. As for now, the wound she'd acquired in the exact same spot ached a little, but nothing too serious. She'd removed the stitches the evening before, some had bled a little, and bandaged it tightly. It would have to do. Once the adrenalin pumped through her veins, it would be but a sore souvenir.

A hand appeared before her eyes. She seized it tightly and she was lifted swiftly behind Tristan's horse. That man was definitely stronger that he looked.

— "Come, little fairy. Arthur will speak with the leader. We'll cover him from the wall"

The young woman nodded in assent as the rider spurred his horse to a gallop. Then, as Arthur passed the heavy gates, they both climbed the wall. Tristan knocked an arrow, and she followed his suit, eyes strained on the negotiations happening a hundred feet away. The leader was on foot, clearly at disadvantage for Arthur had not dismounted. It didn't seem to daunt him; his proud poise falsely nonchalant as he exchanged with their friend. Long blond hair, long beard, shiny eyes and wide, very wide shoulders. But even with his built, Frances doubted she'd be able to hit the man at this distance; her aim wasn't THAT good. It didn't matter; the scout certainly could. Her gaze wandered amongst the Saxon ranks, studying their armor – a disparate bunch of cuirass and mails –and weapons. Then her eye caught something in the great tree that faced the battlefield, a movement of the branches far too important to be caused by an animal.

— "I think there's someone in the tree", she told Tristan.

The scout merely grunted, arrow knocked, eyes stuck on the Saxon leader. It took a while before Arthur decided to retreat, and Frances stowed her bow once he passed the heavy doors. At the very moment he appeared below them, Tristan shifted his stance, pulling the string, and released his arrow. It climbed gracefully in the air, arching down into the tree. A muffled cry, then a body fell at its roots. Tristan didn't even turn around to check the result of his shot, gesturing to Frances to follow him downstairs. His steed awaited patiently, and the scout stowed his bow with swift gestures.

— "It's the traitor from the lake, the Briton", he eventually said.

— "OK"

At once, his hands were at her waist, lifting her up on the saddle in a swift push. Then he climbed in front of her, so graceful that it reminded her of the elf's weightless moves.

— "You got the right, I take the left", he ordered.

— "Aye aye, sir", she responded.

The retreated again on top of the hill; then the waiting game begun. In the mist of the trees stood an army of blue painted warriors, their scent characteristic, and Frances wondered if it really went away from their skin. Her thoughts ran into her frantic mind; her body so tense that she had to refrain from fidgeting. Anything could happen now. Would she hold her own on the battlefield ? What if she messed up, and died ? What if she was maimed ? What if her sword was swatted away, and nicked Tristan's legs in front of her ? She'd never fought on horseback, never led a charge. Frances was proficient enough on foot, especially with her hand to hand training, but as a knight ? At last, she reached for Tristan's, landing a hand on his shoulder to ground her thoughts. The scout was his impassive self, his golden eyes observing, waiting for the others to make the first move, ready to sprang forward and lay waste on the battlefield. A hardened warrior, unlike her. Saxon drums started to pound their rhythm, stating their intentions. They were ready. The first wave of their infantry begun their advance to the wall, spears crashing against their shields in an enthralling dance. This was it. The battle of Badon Hill had started.

The sound of horse's hooves pounding the ground had Frances turning around in panic. Had the Saxons managed to circle them? A breathless sigh escaped her when she realised that the knights of the round table had decided to join the fight. Then a full smile blossomed on her lips. Gawain, Galahad, Lancelot, Bors and Dagonet formed a line beside their commander, beside them. All knights in shining armor, all of them wearing a banner, a grin on their lips, the joy of being reunited in a battle of their choosing. And Arthur's eyes filled with pride as he turned his horse around to greet them.

The commander's voice rang loud and clear upon the hill, talking about freedom and the land they'd protected for so many years. It was a heartfelt moment, shared amongst brothers, and Frances marveled that she could witness it. She, who was just a stranger to their tight group, but not unwelcome. Then they uttered a terrifying battle cry, and planted their banners firmly into the ground. After sharing one last look of comradery, the whole group descended to lower ground. Behind them, the flags floated in the wind, oblivious to the massacre that was about to happen. The testimony that Sarmatian knights had chosen Brittany as their home.

Frances' eyes roamed over the line of knights, detailing their helmets and armors. The horses were fully clad as well, protected from snout to rear end by mail and plates. They were a magnificent and fearsome sight! Smiling at Bors and Dagonet, who were next in line, she caught a glimpse of Lancelot's form beside Arthur. The dark knight sent her a devilish smile, probably still proud that he'd tricked her yesterday evening, and gotten away with it. Would he ever stop gushing about it? Frances responded by a glare who would have frozen hell over.

— "What is this look about?", came a familiar smooth voice.

Hell. Nothing passed Tristan. How could he possibly know she'd glared with her sitting behind him? Frances sighed, scooting closer to his ear to hold a private conversation.

— "That infuriating man pecked me by surprise."

The scout tensed in front of her, but his only response was as devoid of emotion as ever.

— "Did you like it?"

— "Ugh, no! I'm not for sale! And this is Lancelot we're talking about !"

Was it her imagination, or her heartfelt response had him slacken on the saddle? Turning slightly, he caught her eye with a very serious look of his own.

— "And you didn't kill him?"

A smile spread on her face at Tristan's response; he trusted her to do justice on her behalf, to defend herself. And this vision, for a fifth century man supposed to be retrograde and macho, warmed her heart. No matter how patronizing he could seem, Tristan had no qualms about genders when it came to warriors. He respected skills, and disliked chatterboxes, be them men or women. Period. Frances grinned at the perspective of kicking Lancelot's arse.

— "Not yet. But when I do, he won't see it coming"

— "Why not?"

His tone was curious, his voice nearly lost as hundreds of feet stomped on the ground below them. That casual conversation over her thief-kisser was the most surrealistic moment of her life.

— "Why not what?"

— "Why not on the spot"

Once more, he had nailed a severe inconsistency. Frances bristled in the saddle, adjusting her thighs around his to get more leeway.

— "I was too stunned … and I am loathe to hurt him, especially before battle"

— "I will kill him myself," came his growl.

Frances barked a laugh.

— "We can do it together."

— "Aye, little fairy. We will"

Lancelot would be no match for the two of them, even with two swords. Below them, the Saxon lines wracked their spears upon their shields, chanting a rhythmic word that resembled German so badly that it left a sour taste in her mouth. Yeah, she'd seen too many Second World War movies, that's for sure.

Frances tightened her hold on Tristan as the first batch of Saxon infantry searched for their enemies. The door clanged behind them, wood creaking in a macabre omen, the view blocked by heavy smoke. The battlefield was much clearer from the edge of the forest, the wind whipping in their backs. Strung like a coil, Frances waited for the Picts's volleys of arrows to land before they sprang into action. The heavy thud of her heart hammering in her chest caused her blood to roar in her ears. Her stress was reaching a peak, and Tristan's horse could feel her unease as he shifted below them. At once, the knight put a restraining hand on its coat, and then, his fingers trailed to her knee.

— "Be still," he commanded.

— "Be safe," she answered.

Her words had an unexpected effect as Tristan twisted in the saddle, his heavily armoured arm passing over her head and landing behind her shoulder. His head was turned forward, shielding his gaze from her surprised one, yet his hold tightened. It was an awkward hug, but a welcome one nonetheless. She wound her arms around his waist, marvelling at the plates that protected his body. Pressed against him, lost in his embrace, she felt courage building up in her mind. Eventually, his warm lips came to rest upon her brow, a sweet and caring contact that lingered none too long. Warmth exploded in her chest, and an intense sense of safety in which she basked for a few seconds. Then his rough finger lifted her chin in a playful move, the same he pulled on Lady Hawk when he sent her flying.

— "There's no reason to let Lancelot claim the last kiss, eh?"

Frances's lips quirked in a half smile, awed by his tenderness. Who knew Tristan could be so caring? Frozen to the spot, her mind blocked the marching of the army who would, probably, be the death of them all. She didn't hear the whistles of arrows in the wind, neither the cries of the dying, nor the inconsistent yells. In this very moment, there was nothing more than his arm around her shoulders, and the storm raging in his brownish eyes. His masculine scent surrounded her, hanging heavily between them, tendrils weaving a web around her face as his wild hair flew about them. Then it happened. Tristan tilted his head down, brushing his lips to hers. It was but a featherlike touch, one that said so much that it left her heart trembling and her mind numb. His beard slightly scratched her chin, the tingling welcome upon her skin. The knight eyed her warily as he pulled back, his golden gaze darkened with desire, knowing that he had just lost the merciless fight between heart and mind.

She was watching him, her breath short, her expression so utterly lost that shame overtook him for pushing against her boundaries with all the might of his overwhelming presence. But shame wasn't enough to quell his desire to claim her, and he descended once more upon her mouth, sealing his lips to hers in a searing kiss. A heavy embrace, loaded with regrets, demanding; he couldn't help it. Instead of flinching away, France met him head on, his passion mirrored in the way her body came to meet his. One of her hands landed on his cheek, soft fingers caressing his bearded skin, her touch sweeter than honey. The other one squeezed his nape in a desperate hold, pulling him to her in their awkward position. His tongue caressed her lips, seeking to part them, and when he tasted the warmth of her inviting mouth, Tristan nearly lost the tight control her prided himself to have. It was too short, way too short, for a man who's yearned for love for so long. But enough to wash away his regrets.

— "Now I can die," he breathed, trapping her in the depth of his intense gaze.

— "Please don't," came her pleading response, her eyes speaking the rest in her stead.

The next move took all of his will power. Straightening, Tristan released Frances's lips with one last peck and adjusted his seat in the saddle, reclaiming his previous spot as his arm passed over her head once more.

— "Helmet, Frances," came his stern voice.

Smiling at the gruff command – despite the shaking moment they'd just shared, he had not forgotten – the young woman fished the piece of armor from a saddle strap and adjusted it below her chin. And just like that, they were ready for war. But on her lips lingered his taste.

**_As for the kiss … it wasn't Frances, right? : p_**


	25. Badon Hill - Reviewed

**_So, there we are. You'll find some violence, but nothing gore. And you might find something you've been expecting for a while as well. The true question being, will Tristan live or die ? (evil cackle) Please let me know how it went for you, I'm not so good at writing action scenes. So, review ?_**

Arthur's command came swiftly, and at once, they were rushing down the field, swords raised. Struck by the fluttering of her heart, Frances squeezed her thighs to keep in position, but she nearly got thrown out such as the crazy pace of the warhorse. Its powerful muscles rolled below her legs, the intensity of the charge unlike anything she had experienced before. She needed to concentrate if she wanted to survive this battle ! Frances snaked an arm around Tristan's breastplate; it was not ideal, but it would keep her from falling. And then the screen of dark smoke assaulted them. The smell was horrid, its heaviness penetrating nose and lungs, choking her. But the first Saxon faces appeared below the horse' hooves, and Tristan was lashing out with his left hand. His warhorse, unstoppable, trampled bodies and broke bones, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake.

— "Frances!" came his commanding voice.

The young woman regained her bearings, lifting her sword up and slashing it down once, twice. She winced as her blade connected with arms, faces, necks and chests. But such was the horrible reality of war. Killed or be killed. There was no other option. She very nearly lost her sword at it embedded itself in a chest piece, her quick reflex saving it as she twisted the handle and gave a hard pull. Phew. The first passage was done, another volley of arrow fired before they would get into the fray. Heaving, Frances gulped a few mouthfuls of clear air, hoping it would, as well, clear her mind. She didn't want to disappoint Tristan; so that he wouldn't regret his choice to lead her into battle. The knight stood proud in the saddle, flicking his blade to remove the excess blood in a practiced manner. Although he didn't turn once to her, she was grateful for his presence; an anchor in reality. Frances needed to focus on the task, and be mindful of her grip lest she lost her weapon. Her elvish training instructor always said: "Your sword is your life. Loose it, and it will be forfeit". He couldn't be more right.

At once, they started moving again. This time she was ready, avoiding to clash with weapons, timing her attacks to make more damage. The wind swept past her face as she refused the smoke to enter her lungs, breathing only in the clearest spots. The helmet was heavy on her shoulders, restraining her field of vision and preventing her from turning her head backwards. A necessary evil ! Already, a bolt had bounced on the metal. Tristan turned his horse around, passing through wheezing projectiles and tracing back the line of terrified Saxons. They started to shoot at each other, eyes wide, tracking the knights that hacked at their backs. Frances tamed her raging mind, refusing to see the results of her blows, slashing with great swings to inflict the most damage in one passage. Her thighs hurt from holding on, her arm aching from the harshness of the blows reverberating through her joints, her whole body stiff like a board. Cavalry was a demanding job, something very different than fighting on foot, and she wondered if she'd made the right choice. Before her, Tristan seemed to mold in the saddle, his blows efficient, graceful, much less forced than hers. Once more, Frances wept for the loss of her elvish blade. The dao she'd acquired was but a poor replacement, one she never got used to. It didn't sing in her hand, didn't enhance her blows nor increased her speed like the sword Glorfindel had forged for her. But it was better than nothing.

At last, the first wave of infantry has been wiped out entirely, and the knights retreated once more. Frances breathed in relief when all of them were accounted for, and Dagonet send her a respectful nod. The rest of the Saxons marched on, passing the gate with a battle cry that died on their lips. The only spectacle that greeted them was the bodies of their men; not an enemy in sight. They paused, the blond burly leader organizing their ranks in a left and right flank before a harsh order was issued anew, and the march started again. The drums enhanced the sound of their chanting as they shocked their shields, the very ground shaking below them. Even after facing ten thousand Uruks, Frances found them a fearsome sight. Her eyes roamed their ranks, wondering how they could possibly survive facing such a force in the open. Merlin appeared, on top of the hill, dragging three trebuchets that shouldn't have existed at this time in this place, shaking Frances out of her dreadful frame of mind.

— "That's cheating", she mumbled.

— "What do you mean ?", came Tristan's levelled voice.

— "Those weapons are not supposed to exist… yet. Anachronic"

Anyhow, she wasn't one to complain. If Merlin had guessed properly, and the Saxons had been led by an enemy of higher power, they would need all the help they could get.

— "So are you, little fairy"

Tristan's statement startled her. Damn, he was right !

— "I know"

The knight's hand came to rest on her knee, squeezing a little before he unbuckled his bow from the saddle. His impressive blade reintegrated the sheath as he stated:

— "Be ready. We charge"

And then, chaos was unleashed as Merlin's trebuchets started a bombing the US army would have been proud of. On the other side, Guinevere's fire arrows had ignited a trench of tar and oil to divide the rest of the Saxons. More smoke rose, its acrid smell assaulting her lungs. A war cry, echoed by many others told her that the real battle had begun. A few moments later, Arthur lifted Excalibur in the air, and charged forward. His knights followed at once, arms brandished, ready to shed Saxon blood. Frances' legs held tight as Tristan's impressive warhorse charged. Clinging to him was out of the question, for he needed freedom of movement to shoot properly. Twisting to the left to give him more leeway, she grasped the saddle tightly, knuckles white. For a moment, the young woman wondered how the knight managed to aim as they charged at full speed. Nonetheless, his arrows all landed true. The first passage was a flurry of hooves, the warhorse's momentum wreaking havoc on the battlefield, hitting Saxons, and a few unlucky Picts. Frances's blows were few as she only had a moment between Tristan's arrows to use her right hand; she wasn't proficient enough to attempt fighting with her left. At last, they exited the battlefield and the knight discarded his bow, fixing it with a knot to his mount.

Spurring his mare to a gallop, Tristan unsheathed his sword as they plunged back into chaos. Frances to the right, Tristan to the left; like an old couple they worked. For a moment, they had a clear advantage with the horse' speed. The young woman hacked, and sliced without distinction, her blows not so precise, but efficient enough to send a few Saxons sprawling on the floor. The energy of the charge did the rest. Pain shot through her right leg, her calf sliced at they lost speed. Frances kicked out, the reflex saving her from a gruesome wound as it broke a nose. And then the unthinkable happened. Their mount sidestepped a man, unbalancing Frances whose left hand shot up around Tristan's breastplate tightly. A neigh of pain was all the warning they got before his mare reared up. Frances flew at once, thrown to the ground with such force that she nearly impaled herself on her sword. A cry escaped her lips, pain shooting through her right side, arms and ribs bruised by the heavy fall. Dark spots danced before her eyes, and she rolled on her knees, trying very hard not to black out.

At once, Tristan leapt from his horse; his mount's underbelly was pierced by a spear. Those rascals had first attacked her calves, and taken advantage of her rearing. Heartless cowards ! His heart bled for her, she'd been a constant companion, and faithful to the bone. But his priorities laid elsewhere, for Frances was exposed. Bent over her, her eyes veiled by the pain, she couldn't see the axe coming at her. Tristan did. A mighty leap was all it took to cut the attacker in two neat pieces. The next one fell before he approached within three feet of his fallen lady. He'd be damned if he let anything happen to her ! En guarde once more, Tristan danced a deadly ballet around Frances, until she seemed to regain her bearing. Then, he pulled her to her feet harshly, his hand lingering a tad too long on her shoulder.

— "Fight, Frances", he told her, his face an inch from her.

Her hazel eyes responded to his intense gaze as she swayed. Tristan turned around just in time to slice a throat. The Saxon's blade had nicked his arm, and the knight watched him coldly as he choked on his own blood, reaching for Frances to keep her standing. Let it be known that no one attacked his lady ! At last, she seemed ready to fight. Sword held in a protective stance, her posture assured, although favoring her left side slightly. At once, a deadly dance started, she defending her side, he cutting through the Saxons as he led them on the battlefield. He analysed, and decided where to go; she followed. Not once their blades clashed against one another, their movements synchronized, each guessing what the other's move would be. It was a mighty fight, a flurry of slashes on a gruesome battlefield. Frances' reluctance was gone, leaving it its wake an efficient fencer. Light on her feet, swift with her blade, she was every inch his counterpart, albeit her strength and precisions were no match for his. But she compensated it by deviating blows rather than meeting them firsthand; the fighting style adapted to her sword and lack of strength.

After taking a harsh kick to the ribs, she picked up a shield to guard her body, attacking, with feet, and hands, elbows and knees whenever her assailants came too close. Once or twice, her quick reflex disabled some of his own opponents. A mighty blow to the neck with her shield sent one sprawling at his feet, ready to be sliced by his blade. Another one fell due to a knee connecting with his private parts. Almost amused, Tristan ended his life without pause. His little fairy was fierce in battle, using every part of her body as a weapon. He'd never thought he would be able to fight with another, especially a stranger, and make it so seamless. It was almost surreal, how they protected each other's back, how invincible they seemed to be together. Frances glanced at him as many times as he looked out for her, checking for injuries, assessing his next steps. She knew where he was, as he knew her exact position.

There were fewer enemies left standing, the area cleaning up a little. Picts and Saxons alike littered the ground as they moved through the battlefield, coming closer to the wall of fire. Tristan chanced a glance at Frances; he chest heaved, but there were no serious injuries. She addressed him a firm look, one that said 'glad you're alive, lead the way'. She didn't seem too angry about the stolen kiss, and he couldn't will himself to regret it. His resolve had faltered after hearing what Lancelot had dared ! Now, he knew how heavenly her lips tasted like. He needed to keep her alive, to taste her once more. As he considered their next move, Tristan spotted HIM. Cold sweat trickled down his spine. The Saxon leader, unharmed, had not even drawn his sword yet. And his eyes, cold, and calculating, were set on Frances. Cold rage hit him, his jaw clenching as he slashed at an enemy without even looking at him. He willed, with all his might, that the Saxon leader would turn his attention to him, and leave the little fairy out of this. He was too powerful for her to take; a monster. One last slash, and a solider fell at Frances's feet, leaving an opening. Tristan grasped her forearm tightly, sending her a commanding look.

— "Flee, go !"

— "Over my dead body", she cried.

The knight cursed, and, without a second though, pushed her away from him. Ignoring the hurt in her eyes – sending pang though his heart – he traced a line between him, and the Saxon leader, making sure there were plenty of opponents in his path. Frances wouldn't be able to follow as he pushed them behind him, slightly incapacitated for her to slaughter. The young woman yelled her disagreement at his fast and steady progress.

— "Tristan you… ‼! Damn it ! Damn you knight ! I swear I'll kill you myself… !

Most of her outraged cries got lost in the vacarm of the battle, but not enough for him to tune her out. His heart clenched, leaving his little fairy behind… The Saxon, though, eyed him with amusement. The man was nowhere as stupid as he hoped. Then, he unsheathed a huge sword, and twirled it around expertly. Tristan allowed a wave of calm to wash over him, replacing the weariness of his muscles by awareness, using the aches of his bruises to fuel his anger. A quick glance to his right told him Frances held her ground, tracing her own path in another direction. Good.

— "Once I'm through with you, I'll get to her", the large Saxon leader taunted in a nonchalant voice.

— "Yeah, yeah", he drawled.

His nonchalant rebuke miffed the Saxon who stood taller, and pointed his sword to him. Tristan smiked; his charming personality seemed to have nailed the man's pride just right. When the fight started, he was in the best condition – given his exhaustion – to hack the bastard into tiny pieces. How wrong he'd been ! One little sparring later, he had to step back, panting heavily. The man was so strong, and proficient with his blade. He even had the gall to stand leisurely, waiting for him to come once more, as if he had no care in the world. His long strands didn't move in the breeze, as if they were as heavy at its master. But Tristan would have none of it. The man was too fresh, and Arthur might very well be outmatched if facing him after such a tedious battle. He owed it to him to tire him out. He owed it to Frances that he didn't approach within a hundred feet. He attacked once more, blades clashing, his dao never connecting as his blade was swept aside. Then a piercing ache crippled him, and he stumbled back in disbelief. His right underarm was bleeding profusely, the blond leader smirking at him, a few hairs out of place.

How was he going to get out of this mess?

Two hundred yards away, Frances was fighting for her life. Tired to the bone, her slashes had lost punch, her adrenalin running out. The only thing that kept her running was her determination, and the sense of urgency as she tried to carve her way back to Tristan. The stupid, stupid knight ! He's thrown so many in her way, trying to take the Saxon leader on his own, that she'd be swept aside. How she feared that her dream might come true, that he would die in battle and be forever forgotten! Anger fueled her attacks, anger at his stupidity. Why ? Why had he taken that leader on his own, instead of trusting her ? Was he seeking a glorious death on the battlefield ? Out of the corner of her eye, she could distinguish the two mighty warriors fighting for their lives. And for once, Tristan wasn't as graceful as he used to be. He fought two handed, and she wondered if his sword arm was hurt. An axe nearly shopped her head off, and Frances ducked out of reflex. Her foot connected with a knee, and the Saxon fell forward. She finished him off, but not before his dagger sliced her armor in the ribs.

— "Ow !", came her pained cry before she embedded her sword into his chest.

Damn, the slash was deep, and bleeding profusely. But not life threatening, or so she thought. Her eyes roamed the battlefield once more, landing on Lancelot as he sent a ridiculously bearded blond to the ground. The knight seemed to manage quite well on his own, and she turned once more to Tristan which posture had sagged alarmingly. The road was clear, at last ! Her heart hammered in her chest, her breath short, sweat trickling down her brow. Just as she was about to run back to Tristan, Merlin's voice echoed in her head once more. 'Be mindful of your choices'. Willing the annoying warning to go away, Frances paused to breath heavily. Damn, this slice stung like hell ! Checking one last time Lancelot's posture, dread descended on her spine as she spotted the crossbow in the Saxon's hands. This time, it was Tristan's voice she remembered. 'If you face a choice, don't save me'. Frances cried in agony, her steps faltering, heart cleaved in two.

— "No, no, no !", came her heartfelt yell to the sky.

The Saxon aimed, and she took flight, running like a madwoman, her sword raised before her. A man tried to stop her, he fell dead in the blink of an eye.

— "Lance !", she yelled.

The knight turned but didn't move from his spot. She would be too late ! too late. Frances launched herself forward just as the bolt darted off the crossbow. A crushing pain ripped through her shoulder as she collapsed in Lancelot's arms. Frances wailed in agony, blacking out, unable to witness the blind fury on the knight's face as he finished the Saxon's son with a mighty slash of his blade. Then his hands were calling her back, his voice worried.

— "Frances ! Frances ! Damn it, lady knight !"

Lancelot was frantic. Frances opened her eyes, the pain crippling, shaking from the agony. She wanted to talk, but her vocal chords refused to respond.

— "Don't speak, it's all right. I'll take care of you"

She wanted to scream, she wanted to yell at the top of her lungs that no, it wasn't all right. But her teeth shattered from the shock. At last, she gave a mighty push to roll on her side, yelling at the pain that ripped through her like a trail of fire.

— "Tristan !", she stuttered, her right arm pointing to the last place she'd seen him. "Tristan !"

Realization dawned in his dark eyes, and Lancelot darted off. Slowly, Frances managed to crawl on all fours, mindful to not put pressure on her arm. Black spots danced before her very eyes, and she spat on the ground. 'Come on', she screamed at herself. 'Come on !'. But try as she might, her body refused to stand. Hands snaked around her waist, pressing the slash of her ribs uncomfortably. Just as she was about to trash, Frances recognized Guinevere. Help had come in the least expected way ! Her face was painted blue and crimson, her body bruised and slashed.

— "Come", she said, leading her to where Lancelot and Arthur were now battling the Saxon leader. "Let's witness this son of a bitch's death"

Guinevere led her steadily, her slender frame curiously sturdy as she took most of Frances's weight. One step after the other, the Keeper of Time struggled against the dizziness. She needed to find him. Find him, find him. The mantra kept her going, until at last, the two women were facing the intense battle that raged on between the Saxon leader, Arthur and Lancelot. A few stray Saxons were coming their way, and Guinevere had to let Frances go to keep them at bay. Lancelot joined her, clearing the place little by little, face exhausted, wrath unleashed. Behind them, Arthur was livid, fighting like there would be no tomorrow. But Frances didn't linger, falling to the ground the instant Guinevere released her. Her shoulder was a bloody mess, the clavicle shattered. The pain was so intense, radiating all around her chest and back, as if she'd been pounced by a hammer. Frances didn't care much for the consequences; it would be repaired on her trip back home by the molecular restructuration. If she didn't die of blood loss anyway… this was getting a habit. Concentrate, concentrate ! Getting a hold on herself, she spotted Tristan's silhouette, resting on his side, blood oozing from so many punctures that she almost cried.

Slowly, Frances mustered the little strength she had left to crawl over him. Fingers digging in the blood-soaked earth, she progressed slowly, her teeth gritted to keep the pain at bay. For a moment, her vision clouded, a black veil threatening to take her. Not now, not now ! Her shoulder was insanely painful, yet her will was stronger. Frances crawled like a dog, again and again to Tristan. He was there, lying on his side, a crimson river flowing out of his body. Just a few feet more. When at last, she was close enough to touch him, she laid her good hand on his shoulder. Tristan rolled on his back helplessly, eyes closed. Frances gasped, crawling closer still, leaning upon his armor. His right forearm was pierced by a huge dagger, the blade through his whole muscle, weapon still in place.

— "Tristan !", she called, her voice frantic. "Tristan !"

Her plea was desperate, tears gathering in her eyes. And he heard her. Taking a shaky breath, Tristan bestowed upon her his mighty gaze. A piercing cry echoed in the air, Lady Hawk circling her master with mournful chirps.

— "Isolde", he whispered reverently.

Isolde ? Lady Hawk's name ? Frances took a sharp intake of breath, understanding dawning upon her. This was were the myth of Tristan and Iseult ? His eyes glazed over, and he closed them once more.

— "Don't you dare !" Frances wailed. "Don't you dare leave me like this !"

But his lifeforce was bleeding out of him through his many wounds, crimson droplets smeared all over his beautiful face. Beside him, Frances closed her eyes as well, tears trailing down her cheeks. There was only one way out of this. Taking a deep breath that sent a jolt of pain through her shoulder, she tried to communicate with sky and earth to gather her own lifeforce. And then, resting her palm upon his heart, shaking like a leaf under the strain, she started to transfer her energy to him. The tingles down her fingers told her that it worked, that she had reached her meditation state efficiently enough to give him as much as she could. What strength desperation could muster ! Yet, she didn't have much left, and needed to convey as much as possible if she wanted to save him. Her whole body trembled now, propped in an awkward position, her muscles protesting from the strain, her mind fuzzy. When at last weakness overwhelmed her, she sagged against him with a sob.

A hand caressed her cheek, picking up a tear, rough fingers warm upon her cold skin. His voice was a smooth as ever as his last sentence passed through his lips.

— "Don't cry little fairy, I will watch…"

A cough wracked his body, blood spluttering over. A punctured lung. A death sentence.

— "Will watch over you… from up there"

His eyes locked on hers, intense, their depth unreadable, two mesmerizing orbs that kept her under his spell until the very last moment. Then his chest stopped moving under her hand, and his gaze lost the fierceness of his presence. Frances let out a wail of agony. Tristan's body was but a soulless vessel under her palms, his heart forever silent. Warm, strong hand tried to gather her, but she wouldn't let go of the scout's armor. Her fingers were clutched tightly, knuckles white, claws buried on leather and metal. Beside Tristan's body, Arthur crashed to the ground, crying to the sky in anguish. Galahad, Gawain and Bors were still standing, albeit uneasily, taking in the sorry sight of their scout and his fiery lady whose body slumped suddenly. The pain had eventually won the war.

**_Please don't kill me ? I honestly cried writing this, but it needed to be done. Tristan always knew he'd die in battle, and he has done a mighty job at protecting the Keeper of Time. Although I wonder if the two of them couldn't have taken Cerdic. I'm sure they might have prevailed, given their combined skill. But hey, can't fault a fifth century man from protecting his woman. I'll go and cry my eyes out now. Sniffle. It's horrible to kill a character I love so much, Tristan is… was such a great man._**

**_All right, so Mairi asked for an alternate ending where Tristan doesn't die. It is now available in story 'Forevers yours', chapter 5, Alive – First part. It is a version where Legolas had never existed. Cheers._**


	26. Those left behind

**Wow, thank you momotte, Koba and ****MairiMcKennaO'Brian**** for your reviews! 3 for the same chapter, I think that you deserve another one.**

**To my faithful Koba (since I cannot pm), yes, sequel. It's already 70,000 words long at the moment, so I definitely know where I'm going with this. Just need to finish the King Arthur main story first. One chapter left to write, 3 to read for you before we can move on. I do happily ever after, always, because I can't stand to do otherwise so … be ready **

**I'm happy you liked the scene, and that if was all right to read. I always find action more difficult than the rest, must be my contemplative mood as a writer… Now well, let us deal with the aftermath of battle. Not always so pretty, eh? (just channelling Tristan and his manner of speech)**

The next days were a blur of pain, and Frances did not remember much except that she was moved from the battlefield to the infirmary. The smell was different, and the trip send her body into a fit of agony. Voices came and went, so did her consciousness. Then came the heat wave, sending her to hell as her shoulder hurt so painfully it felt trapped below the tyres of a truck. Her body shook, and sweat, impairing the most basics of functions as her muscles were the prow of infection. The cracked ribs throbbed every time her body shuddered, the slice on her calf merely stinging compared to the unrelenting waves of pain that came from her destroyed clavicle and shoulder blade. The bolt had crushed her entirely. Every once in a while, a foul liquid was forced down her throat, one that made her gag and grimace. Then they manipulated her, and she grit her teeth strongly enough to pop them out, unable to yell such was the crippling hold of her searing pain.

Dagonet, ever watchful, made sure to care for her in a mindful manner. He undressed her himself, and never allowed anyone to see her in her sorry state until she was covered from head to toe. The armour she wore had saved her life many, many times. It was covered in slices and indentations. Sometimes, the other knights came to visit her, gazing at her pale face. The day Gawain was discharged, his wounds not life threatening, Galahad was swiping a cold cloth over Frances' forehead. A frown marred his features, his eyes unsettled.

— "She'd been silent for three days. Three full days"

— "She's unconscious," came the blond knight's stern reply.

Galahad frantically shook his head.

— "Not always. Why does she not talk? Or whimper? Or cry out? Have you seen the state of that collarbone? It is…."

It was Dagonet's voice that answered, the silent knight approaching.

— "Gruesome. The healer has done its best to repair it, but she'll never use it properly. The bones are crushed, the muscles…"

— "And the scar will be horrendous."

Gawain's eyes roamed Frances' prone form, his face desolate. Her wounds were the worst of them; knowing that it resulted from saving Lancelot's life left quite a sour aftertaste. But they were grateful for her sacrifice. One loss was already too much to bear.

— "Aye, that will be one hell of a scar. A warrior's. She's a tough lady"

At this, Frances' mind merely snorted. They would never need to know that when in dire pain, she was quite unable to voice anything. Control, to the last level of craziness, that her own body was forcing upon her without any possibility to escape it. Trapped inside her own body, unable to ask for help! The voices faded in the background; she was too weak to make sense of it. And the dull ache of Tristan's death in her soul prevented her from ever wanting to be awake. Had Legolas been there, she might have nursed her heartache in his arms. But for now, no matter how deep her affection for the knights, there was no one to guide her to the light. Hence she plunged into darkness once more. They said time would heal.

— "She didn't deserve it, to be shattered like this. She's shown me such beauty, a new path…"

Galahad's voice was wistful, devoid of anger. And his serene took Gawain's breath away. As if the pup had eventually accepted the hardships of his life and decided to move on, to pardon.

— "What happened, Galahad?"

— "I think I found my faith. The day she sang the Ave Maria."

Gawain's blond eyebrows climbed to his hair line. Beside him, the young knight's gaze unfocused as his emotions revolved around an inner light. An illumination. A newfound purpose, to love and defend honourably, to follow the teaching of a benevolent God. One who would lead him on the path to righteousness. Arthur would help him understand this new belief, he was sure of it.

Another two days passed. Frances had regained consciousness for good, and moved back to Bors' room at the fort to escape the constant fussing of healers and visitors. She'd been, altogether, quite unresponsive to any friendly banter thrown her way. The only one who had broken her mask had been Lancelot and his heartfelt thanks. To his great dismay, his words of sincere gratitude had broken a dam of repressed grief, catching the knight rather off guard. She'd dismissed him between sobs, telling him the shock of the battle was catching up with her, her words laced with a partial truth. Yes, the battle had been gruesome. Yes, seeing all those bodies, those lives ended, some from her own hand, would haunt her forever. Just like Helm's deep did. But the root of her despair lied elsewhere. Guilt. Tremendous guilt due to her choice. Lancelot or Tristan. Tristan or Lancelot. She'd left Tristan to die, turning her back on him, leaving him to bleed out at the hands of that Saxon brute. Her dear friend, the light fleeing his amber eyes as he expired, his chest stilling below her, a slight smile on his lips. And even more unsettling, the last kiss they had shared atop his faithful stallion. This send her mind in turmoil. Did she love him? Could one love two people at the same time? She'd promised Legolas forever and still yearned for him. It was as if she was split between them, one left in Arda, and another on earth. It didn't make sense.

Her anger at Merlin, for reminding her of her duties in the midst of battle, ate at her. A bottomless pit that could only fester. Lancelot was a great figure of the Arthurian legends, while Tristan was not. There had been no choice, really. But having Tristan' life in her hands, and dismissing it was like a bleeding wound into her soul. The worst she'd ever suffered, for this one was of her doing. Her responsibility. Unlike Legolas' separation, she'd been the instrument of doom, and hated herself for that. No amount of washing in the bathhouse could remove the stain on her skin, the feel of his blood seeping through her fingers, the stench of her choice.

After forty height hours stuck in her room, the young woman eventually asked some help to get dressed, and hobbled painfully in the paved street. People gave her a wide berth; they knew of her connection with the knights now, or couldn't handle her gaunt face. She had turned back into an Ice Queen; chasing away any poor soul who would have in mind to approach her. Her legs functioned uneasily due to her numerous wounds, but most of all, her stiff muscles. The fever had been high, and she'd stifled its last remnant with tablets of antibiotics she hid in her bag. Yet, it left her whole body aching from head to toe. And her whole upper left torso was a mess of shards and broken flesh. The pain crippling, only kept at bay with horrible draughts. And when she could keep it away no more, she overdosed on a little morphine to catch up on her much-needed sleep. It didn't help much; her nightmares were plagued with Tristan's reproaches.

This place, and its reminders, were horrible to her now. She only wanted to be gone, to forget. To sleep in the comfort of her blankets and soak in a bath. To run for miles and miles in the countryside and forget about the rest. To ice-skate indefinitely until she couldn't feel her toes anymore. To rest in Legolas' warm and soothing embrace. At last, the tavern came into view. Taking a few steps forward, Frances glanced at the knight's table. There were all here, drinking and eating, a little worse for wear, bruised and banged up. Not merry, no. But alive. All but one. There was no apple on the table, no dagger contest, no screeching in the sky. A surge of despair welled in her chest, her eyes misting over. Frances heaved, the deep breath sending a jolt of pain through her destroyed shoulder. It was just too much … too much. The young lady caught Vanora's stare, the redhead sporting an apologetic look at seeing her state. As she took a step towards her, Dagonet's hand landed on the waitress' arm, shaking his head.

When Vanora's eyes returned to Frances, she only caught sight of her back. The Keeper of Time wanted to run, far away from her memories, so fervently that her heart ached, but she could only manage a snail's pace. And even then, the simple fact of moving jolted her shoulder so badly that she had to bite her lips. How she longed for Tristan' unwavering shoulder to rely upon… Returning to the knight's dwellings, she let her steps guide her through the maze of corridors. Until she ended up in front of the round table oak doors. Arthur was there, alone, his mind lost in one of his many maps once more. Frances' panting and uneven steps called his attention, and he lifted his head to gaze at the intruder. His green eyes widened as he stood.

— "Frances"

His sudden move made her pause. Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

— "I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean to disturb you"

The former commander frowned slightly, before he strode around the table to join her.

— "Not at all. I am merely happy to see you well enough to leave you room. You gave us quite a fright"

His tall frame towered over her, but the young lady didn't lift her eyes to meet his. There was so much compassion, so much sadness in his gaze. Too much for her broken heart to handle. And she couldn't afford to lift her head anyway; her trapezius muscle would have her hide.

— "Would you care to join me for a while? I know maps to be your domain"

Frances nodded, her throat tight. His hand appeared before her, and she shakily took it. The commander led her slowly to a chair beside him, careful to pull it out for her, and push it slightly over the map of Britain he'd been studying. A wince escaped as she sat, the heavy wound pulsating annoyingly from breast to hip. She'd need morphine soon. Concentrating her gaze on the map, Frances asked him the reason for his previous puzzlement. Arthur being Arthur, he was intelligent enough to catch her drift, and refrain from asking about her health. So together, they roamed the land of his unified kingdom. Pict territory, former Roman occupation, current villages… All of this, for him to govern? For this is what had been plaguing his mind. At last, a sigh escaped his lips as he reclined in his seat.

— "They want to make a King of me, Frances"

— "Good"

Even now, even there, even half dead, she managed to surprise him. Good. A simple, to the point answer with no diplomatic coating. His startled look must have shown, for she pressed on.

— "Do you not think so?"

Once more, he wondered why he should confide in her. After all, Guinevere waited for him in his chambers, quite ready to take that mantle. Would the Pict dismiss his doubts? Yes, probably. The woman had no issues being in a position of power, she was Merlin's daughter after all and had led her people against the Saxons. So why Frances? Especially in her state of … her sorry state. He'd never seen her so broken. Perhaps because she had never judged him, and supported him every step of the way. Perhaps because she told her truth without beating around the bush, without anger as well. Just the plain facts. She didn't push, didn't disapprove. For now, Frances waited, patiently, for him to organise his thoughts.

— "I don't think I have it in me", he eventually blurted.

Frances couldn't move to meet him across the table, her back as stiff as a board. But her eyes closed the distance nonetheless, pinning him in place.

— "That's the exact reason why it should be you, and no other. Anyone that craves power should never have it. You've led and inspired for fifteen years already. What are you afraid of?"

Arthur stood, pacing back and forth in the back of the room.

— "A King! That means another type of power than being a simple commander. Think of Marius, and the absolute power he held in his hands? What would prevent me from slipping away?"

Frances nodded.

— "Your fears are legitimate. Do you think you will be able to reassess your positions every once in a while? You have, after all, taken quite a U-turn from the last fifteen years"

— "And it took me many people to see it, because I was blinded. What if I make this mistake again?"

The lady seemed deep in thought for a moment, and when her gaze returned to him, a new fire was shining within.

— "Then name your counsellors wisely. Lancelot, for one, enjoys challenging you and will not be afraid to so do"

Arthur paused, chuckling to himself.

— "Very true. He never had issues biting my head off"

— "Because he is your friend. You trust him, as he trusts you"

Arthur nodded, regaining his seat once more and setting his elbows on his knees.

— "Being King doesn't mean being all mighty. Take your knights, gain others in which you trust, ask them to steer you the right way, continue to heed their word at equality. No one needs to know what passes behind the doors of the round table. And I promise you, Arthur, that the world will remember you at the greatest king of history … on earth, at least"

Her rant struck him speechless, the air thick with her prophecy. He'd not forgotten her words, after her near plunge into the icy lake. She'd said he would make a great King, she knew it already. As his eyebrows climbed to his hairline, a ghost of a smile passed on Frances' lips.

— "You've known great Kings … elsewhere?"

— "I have, even if I didn't get so see him crowned. He led his people for fifty years before the war, and will be the hell of a King"

Arthur dismissed the fact that fifty years seemed an awfully long time, and her claim that it wasn't on earth. At this point, none of this interested him more than the man she told him about. She was the Keeper of Time after all, and had probably counselled this great man just as she advised him today.

— "Tell me of him"

— "He was incorruptible, compassionate and selfless like you are. Not afraid to fight amongst his kin, but unsure about claiming his heritage as King. A force to be reckoned with. Like you, he feared to be weak in the face of power. An unfounded fear, for I have never seen strength such as his. Aragorn was his name, and he served his people instead of bossing them around. He always was a King in my heart"

Arthur nodded, deep in thought, so Frances continued.

— "Arthur. The world needs your light, the light of your kingdom. As I told you, your principles will be remembered for ages. You need to accept your burden, as I have accepted mine"

Something in her tone nagged at his mind, until he eventually asked.

— "Is this how you lost your betrothed?"

Her hazel eyes lost focus for a moment, sadness and fondness alike pouring into them, the emotions so intense that he wondered how she could keep it bottled up.

— "Aye. This is how. And I know now, that I cannot abandon my duty"

— "Whatever do you mean?"

Her eyes turned to steel, trying, without success, to hide the deepest of scars.

— "It means that rather than running after my beloved, I've been called here. It means that, when faced with a choice, I chose to save Lancelot rather than…"

He understood, right then, right there, what she couldn't name. And his heart bled for her, hoping that never, he would have to choose between his men.

— "Tristan", he whispered.

Tears fell down her cheeks, tracing two deep lines that turned into rivers, until, at last, she covered her face with her hands. Silent sobs escaped her lips, the sound so heart wrenching that Arthur couldn't help but kneel beside her. How badly he wanted to crush her into a hug, but the horrendous wound prevented him to do that. So, he only pried her hands from her face, and held them together tightly. Her pain echoed his so badly that his chest constricted.

— "I'll never thank you enough for Lancelot's life. And I grieve, deeply, for Tristan"

Frances shuddered and winced at the pain. Her 'so do I' answer got lost in her throat. Arthur's calloussed hands drove circles on her flawless skin until she regained her composure.

— "If you wish, you can sing at his funeral. I think he would have loved it"

The young woman closed her eyes anew, taking deep breaths to handle the pain. Then, she nodded.

— "I don't know if I will be able to. There are so many regrets"

— "Aye. I've lost so many, and it becomes more difficult as so few remain now. For fifteen years, we've been together, seeing our numbers dwindle, our brotherhood knitting tighter each time. Loosing one of us now, after their discharge. It is bitter"

Frances sighed. Her pain was nothing compared to his; she'd known Tristan for a such a short time that she wondered how he'd made his way into her heart so abruptly. To deflect from sombre thoughts, she seized the opportunity to interrogate him on his plans. Arthur, then, turned to the map anew.

— "I will have to decide more official positions for them, of course"

— "If I may, Arthur. Your kingdom will need to be strong to be established at first. But I advise, in a few years, to give them leave to travel back to Sarmatia"

His shocked face said it all.

— "Arthur. I have seen them all, reunited around the round table, a few years from now, all accounted for. They served you proudly, as your friends and subjects. But some of them might have families; leaving them behind can only fuel guilt and anger. Mothers are waiting for their sons, sisters alike. Should they return with them, they'd be free of the Roman empire and servitude. If they miss this opportunity, your knights might come to resent Brittany, and their duties"

Her monologue unsettled him, so much that he slumped in his chair. There was no telling how terrified he was to start this new kingdom with a bunch of former enemies by his side. Frances reached for his hand once more, squeezing in reassurance, begging for him to voice his thoughts.

— "Yes. I thought I rode to my death, I didn't want it for them. But now… I need them more than ever"

— "Even Galahad?"

A glint of amusement shone in her eyes.

— "You'll be surprised to see how he has changed in the few days since the battle. But enough of Galahad. I will consider your advice. For now, I think I will need Lancelot more than ever. Especially since a great part of my subjects will be woads"

The nickname felt sour on his tongue.

— "Guinevere will have you head if she hears you"

— "Picts. Sorry"

— "Old habits die hard. And I'm sorry you have to marry someone you don't love"

Her comment sent Arthur in deep reflection. He knew the reasons for Guinevere to seek him out, and even if he had enjoyed their little tryst, it didn't mean he wanted to marry her. She was arrogant, and conceited, her ability to love others than herself quite impaired. But she was Merlin's daughter, and held a lot of power in the Picts' tribes.

— "You know I have known love, and lost it. If this brings peace, then I shall gladly do it"

Frances eyed him curiously.

— "I admire your sense of duty, Arthur. You are right, and it irks me. Nothing short of a wedding can bring an alliance solid enough. And there can be affection and respect, if not love"

The future King certainly hoped so. Guinevere would need to grow up, fast, lest she became a hindrance rather than a partner in this new kingdom. But there was hope still.

— "Speaking of which. How are you going to handle mistrust between Britons and Picts? Have you thought of personal revenge? There are bound to be Picts formerly killed by knights, and likewise fathers and sons killed by Picts? Personal vendetta might be aplenty among the families left behind"

— "We will ban murder, for any motive. Revenge cannot happen within my kingdom without being punished"

The young lady acquiesced, a line forming between her eyebrows as she thought.

— "You will need to upscale everything you had here"

Arthur frowned, her modern speech losing him in meanders of questions.

— "I don't understand"

— "Here, you had your knights. Each of them with specific talents. Now, you will have to have different sections of people with those talents, reporting to one head of section and so forth. A Roman like organisation"

— "Yes. This is the plan, albeit I was hoping to have something a little more flexible. What did you have in mind?"

— "Have you ever thought about having a head of intelligence? Like an entire scouting section, but from within. Some inside spy?"

Her world faltered, and his green eyes met her disturbed hazel. Of course, Tristan would have been the best to overtake such endeavours. But the idea of internal scouts made sense. They might be able to prevent sombre affairs between Britons and Picts.

— "What about Dagonet? He's silent, reliable, people talk to him. And they won't be able to dispose of him easily is something goes awry"

— "Mayhap"

His thoughtful tone made her backpedal, fearing that she'd pushed her opinions a tad too much.

— "Or anyone else. You are bound to find skilled men and women that will want to serve your kingdom"

But it wasn't her opinion of his new head of intelligence that had silenced Arthur, for after a while, he lifted his head and gave her a soft smile, his eyes shining.

— "You'll make a fine Queen someday"

Frances fondled with her sleeve, her cheeks as red as her dress. She doubted Legolas' people would welcome her with open arms. Being a mortal, and condemning their beloved Prince to death wouldn't probably gain her brownie points.

— "Thank you, for your faith in me, but I'll never be Queen"

— "Are you not betrothed to a prince? Maybe he is not destined to reign?"

Yes. There was a good excuse, thinking that Legolas was not the first in line. It would do, rather to explain that King Thranduil was immortal.

— "Something like that"

And no more was said about him, for she didn't want to explain the dilemma of her love life. They dined on the round table this evening, lost in maps, and strategies. Until Guinevere popped up in the room, half-dressed, and demanding that her betrothed was returned to her.

— "Oh it's you", she said as he eyes caught sight of Frances.

The Keeper of Time stood shakily; Arthur's arm offered to steady her.

— "Aye. It's me"

Frances did not know what to expect, and when Guinevere came to face her, she barely avoided stepping back.

— "I meant to thank you for saving Lancelot. He rescued me from Cynric, Cerdic's son. The Saxon proved to be more than I could handle"

The Keeper of Time froze, all her pain, her anger, her grief crystallising on this very woman who'd just admitted that the choice she'd faced was her fault. That the very reason why Lancelot had been there in the first place was to save her sorry ass because she had assessed her opponent badly. Frances' jaw clenched, her fingers digging into Arthurs forearm as he eyes stared coldly at the Woad.

— "You", she hissed, "you are the reason I took this bolt. Tristan died because of you"

Startled by this turn of event, Guinevere glared daggers at her accusations.

— "I fought to protect my people, you cannot blame me for your lover's death"

— "Guinevere!"

Arthur's outraged voice was drowned as Frances' free hand landed on the table with a deafening bang, the chock reverberating through her destroyed shoulder. White, hot rage coursed through her veins, the urge to leap at Guinevere so strong that she concentrated on the pain. Shaking with fury, Frances' tone dropped dangerously low, her rightful wrath simmering below the surface like a volcano about to explode.

— "It is your damn pride that leads you, Guinevere, and your damn pride that created that fateful choice. Your recklessness nearly killed Lancelot!"

The young woad's anger shone through her eyes, and she turned to Arthur. The commander took the hint; he was too tired to stand a fight between those two particular ladies.

— "You would be dead by Cerdic's hand by now, Frances. I only have ever defeated Tristan in battle, that Saxon was the worst opponent I'd faced. If Tristan couldn't…"

His argument was brushed aside, Frances' voice trembling.

— "I could have delayed him, could have stabbed him from behind while Tristan held his attention! No matter how skilled, you can't have eyes on two people at the same time. I'm fast and small… I could have…"

Both of Arthur's hand landed on her arms as he regarded her cautiously.

— "Or maybe we'd prepare you body to be buried. You can never know, Frances. Do not lay blame on a fellow warrior, for what happens in battle cannot be foreseen."

He was loath to reprimand her, but she was going too far. In his grief, Galahad often had tried to lay blame upon other's poor decisions to relieve the pain. It was a young warrior's trait, to look for meaning, to find an explanation. Until all senses got dumb and one could grow to accept the meaningless losses of war. In truth, Arthur had a fair amount of respect for Guinevere who'd fought bravely, and some semblance of affection. He couldn't expose his future Queen to such accusations. Frances's eyes betrayed her disappointment, staring at him in disbelief before she closed her eyes. The young woman heaved once, the pain so clearly written on her face that he winced. Then she turned stiffly, glaring daggers at Guinevere.

— "Beware, Arthur. She is not what she seems to be. As for you, Lady Woad, be cautious not to bring a feud between brothers. Should you do so, I promise to be back to haunt you"

— "Frances", came the commander's stern voice. "This discussion must end"

The Keeper of Time left with a stiff nod, leaving an outraged Guinevere behind while Arthur mused on her words.

— "What do you think she meant by that?"

— "I don't know. Come, she's angry, let us not dwell on her misplaced accusations"

As the little Woad tugged him to his chambers for a make-out session – no doubt – , the commander couldn't help but feel uneasy at the Keeper of Time's warning. Yes, Frances was young, and hurt. But wise beyond her years. And a seer. As for accusing Guinevere about her pride well … she wasn't entirely wrong. He hoped that, in time, he would be able to get his future wife to behave with more discernment rather than engaging a warrior more skilled than she.


	27. We commit you to the earth

**_Thank you all for your kind reviews. I was unsatisfied about the last chapter, and you put my fears to ease. You seem to have appreciated (those who reviewed of course, so I don't know about the 20+ others aha). You probably know what this chapter is about already, so let's get the show rolling._**

**_Tobi… this is for you since you asked so nicely. :) It is a long chapter, I hope you'll like it !_**

The funeral was ready, body wrapped in a shroud, the breeze gently wishing him a fond farewell as the sun shone brightly. How ironic that Tristan should be burnt to the ground on such a beautiful day. Lancelot and his fellow brothers had seen to his preparation themselves while Frances was unconscious. Better for her not to contemplate his still, lifeless face as they tightly wrapped the linen around his cadaver. There had been nothing left of the man, Lancelot surmised, in this cadaveric rigidity. He that always participated in the jokes, picking on Tristan about his never faltering poise and deadened stare, realised only now how wrong he had been. Even if he didn't laugh much, didn't hoyden around or express his feelings, Tristan had been full of life, full of energy. Like a cat, ready to strike, controlling every part of him, coiled like a string too taut. What was left now that the spark had deserted him? A lifeless body, wrapped in shrouds, leaving a memory behind. And many living knights, when they would all be dead without his watchful guard.

Lancelot knocked on Frances' door, and waited. There was a slight shuffle, and the young woman opened the panel wearily.

— "Are you ready ?"

— "Aye"

She looked terrible, with dark circles under her eyes, bruises fading from purple to yellow, and bandages around her collarbone covering all her left side. But even more worrisome was the lack of light in her eyes. As if a part of her had died as well. He knew that feeling all too well; they'd all experienced it as they lost brothers in their fifteen years of service. Lancelot offered his arm, for support as much as reassurance, and they made their way slowly. Frances didn't talk, she didn't smile, nor acknowledge anything that happened around her. A statue, unfeeling, unbreathing. The ice queen. At last, Lancelot gathered his courage.

— "How do you fare, Lady Frances ?"

— "I've been better," came her clipped response.

That's it, he'd had enough. Turning to face her so that he could stare down, he almost yelled.

— "Well, that's the understatement of the century !"

His outburst made her flinch, and he regretted it at once. He'd never seen her flinch before a man. Not even when she faced Tristan in his full wrath. How far was her fiery mind gone down the ladder? But then, a spark ignited in her irises, something akin to anger that she flung right back at him.

— "What do you want to hear, Lancelot ? That I'm struggling not to pass out from the pain ? Do you want to heart how my heart is in shambles ? My mind broken ? Have you any other question ?"

Gaping, Lancelot retrieved Frances' hand, and started walking anew. He had not expected this brutal honesty, and truth be told, it was a dire resumé. He knew women were prone to poetry in matters of the heart, exaggerating to have their way and create guilt in men's hearts. But Frances' words did not seek to elicit any response. It was the pure, honest truth of her state right now.

— "Well, that's a start…"

The paved street seemed so much longer than usual; they progressed at a snail's pace with her injuries. Hearing that her suffering was so great worried Lancelot greatly. He'd witnessed firsthand Frances' resistance. The wound was gruesome, and she only confirmed it. He would have to speak with Dagonet to lessen the pain; she did not deserve it. For a while, nothing more was said, until Lancelot felt brave once more.

— "It is a sad day for us, to bury one of our brothers again. Especially Tristan, who was the most skilled of all…"

Frances didn't react.

— "Life has robbed us of many brothers, left many widows and girlfriends in its wake."

— "I didn't know you to be such a poet," came her flat voice.

Lancelot tightened his hold on her arm; that stupid woman refused to catch any of his lines ! At last, she glanced at him.

— "Ask away, Lancelot, don't waste your breath on falsities"

— "What happened, Frances? What happened that makes you so despondent? We knew it was a possibility, all of us. He was a knight, he embraced it with honour."

Her eyes misted over, and she resumed her walk, watching straight ahead. The sun shone, the trees were dancing in the breeze, calling them to the lush grass of the cemetery.

— "He died because of me."

— "Did you plunge a blade into his heart ?" came his honest reply.

Frances sent him a startled look, shocked by the preposterous.

— "No, but he fought because I stayed."

— "What about us ?"

Silence. The young woman seemed to consider his words, his reasons for fighting alongside Arthur.

— "Tristan would have fought with us. Don't go down this road, Frances."

— "Which one ?"

The question was genuine, for once, and Lancelot gave her a sideways glance.

— "Guilt. We'll all been there, with the numbers we lost. Tristan has, because of his little cousin. He never got out of it, I fear. But guilt never brought anyone back. And the what if, you will never know."

— "Still…"

The dark knight cut her off.

— "Just don't. And I'll have you know that Arthur has the monopoly on guilt anyway."

His jab should have brought out a laugh but none came. She was too deep in thought, too far gone to respond to his gentle jesting. On the hill, Arthur stared at the straw rolls that had been placed over Tristan's wrapped form, sharing a look with Guinevere. Lancelot bristled. Damn that woad for making his body yearn for feminine company in such a moment ! Frances's shaking form beside him grounded him, taking his mind off the dark-haired beauty and future Queen. When Galahad gave the burning torch to Arthur, Frances flinched, and clung to his arm fiercely as the fire caught. They all felt the same; the loss of hope as they purposefully disposed of Tristan's body. And since Frances had saved his life, taking the bolt for him when it would have landed squarely in his chest, Lancelot kept his arm looped with hers. No matter the wisdom shared on guilt, he couldn't deny that it ate at his insides as he considered the horrible wound that would disfigure her form.

Frances was grateful for Lancelot's support. Somehow, amongst all their fighting and rebukes, they had eventually found an understanding. But when Arthur turned to her, his face expectant, she could only shake her head in shame. Her throat was too tight, her tears flowing freely down her cheeks, unable to speak a single word. She couldn't sing, not here, not now… not ever, it seemed. And when the last ashes had dispersed in the wind, and a fresh mount of earth had covered Tristan's last resting place, his sword embedded within, Lancelot turned to Frances to drag her back to her room. She shook her head, a silent plea, to leave her be for a while. And the knights fled the place where so many of them were buried, intent on getting drunk together this evening, leaving Tristan's little fairy behind. For a while, Frances was forgotten. Many hours passed before Dagonet asked of her whereabouts, and the knights decided to search for her, all a little worse for wear, tipsy to fairly drunk. She wasn't in her room, nor in the tavern, nor in the bathing house. At last, it was Gawain who found her as he climbed the wall for a better point of view.

Frances was standing, motionless, beside Tristan's tomb. His sword embedded in the earth, his armour resting beside it, a mourning fairy by his side. The wind caught a few notes; she was singing. Her hair flew in the wind, so did her burgundy skirts. A lady of fire, for an unforgettable scout.

— "She looks like a Sarmatian wife," said Dagonet.

— "Aye, that she does," answered Gawain in awe. "Come, she cannot stay there after nightfall, she'll catch her death. And there's something I wish to give her, if you all agree"

Expectant faces lifted up to Gawain, and he dragged his fellow brothers away from the wall.

The words flew her mouth easily; now that she'd stopped crying, it was easier to gift her present, this song, to Tristan in his resting place without people around. She wondered whether he was happy, or angry to be buried and burnt in this soil. And she couldn't fathom why she chose that particular song, but it seemed to fit quite well to the callous and strong-headed scout.

"Oh God, I apologise. I didn't knock when I arrived."[1]

"Oh God, I apologise. I didn't say goodbye last night. Oh God"

Frances sang the guitar notes, humming them in the wind, her voice a little rough from all the crying she'd done.

"Now I guess you have your way

As I taste the earth today."

"Now I guess you have your way

As I taste the earth today."

The last bit was sung at the higher octave, and she gave it all her strength, all her anger, releasing the control of her voice and nearly yelling them in the wind. She welcomed the pain it created in her chest, to sing so strongly. Anything to numb her mind, anything…

"Now I guess you have your way

As I taste the earth today

Yeah, Yeah"

Then she collapsed on her knees like a fallen angel. She was spent, but at least, some of her sorrow was expelled. How she hated her weakness that prevented her from singing at the funeral ! Arthur would think her a sentimental woman, and he'd be right. Tristan well… he might have understood, or snorted at her. He was… had been so impredictible, yet lenient with her. She wondered why his harsh words had so scarcely been thrown her way. Lancelot's warning ravaged her mind still. Guilt, sadness, regret. Had she done what was expected of her ? If she'd saved Tristan, instead of Lancelot, what would have been the consequences ? Damn, her head kept swimming with the pain medication; and for a while, she just sat there, too dizzy to stand. The sun was setting, it wasn't careful to stay outside. Just as she was about to struggle to her feet, the knights appeared in the cemetery. Dagonet rushed to her side, propping her up and covering her shivering form with a cloak.

— "Your skin is frozen, Frances," he answered her startled gaze.

— "Good, it takes the pain away."

Gawain snorted, cursing about the blasted weather of this forsaken island, while Galahad smiled at her drunkenly.

— "Come on, Lady Frances. You will catch your death, and the whole point of surviving this battle would be lost."

— "I'm keeping company to the one that didn't."

Gawain, who seemed in a clearer mind than Galahad, knelt beside her, a bow in his hands. His startling blue eyes searched her lost gaze, and trapped her there as his soothing voice called her back to reason.

— "The best way to honour the death is to continue living. Tristan would not have wished you to throw your life way."

— "Don't be so dramatic. A cold is the only thing I risk out there."

Lancelot shook his head, refraining from mentioning wild animals, wayward Saxons and drunk men.

— "This is a dangerous place at night, Lady Frances."

Her eyes widened at that, and she grabbed Dagonet's hand to stand. How many times had Tristan told her that this world was not the same at hers ? That dangers lurked about, ready to eat her alive ? She kept forgetting; as a child, she'd spend countless days and nights roaming the countryside on her own without worrying for her safety. Feeling self-conscious, she suddenly cleared her throat.

— "Anyway, I merely wished to pay my respects."

— "By freezing to death on his grave ?" came Bors's reply, his boisterous ways a little dampened by the alcohol.

His hands still held a mug of mead, and he reeked of it. She wondered how Vanora could handle it; maybe her sense of smell was impaired. Everything smelt bad here, from the damp moisture of the rooms, to half-rotten food, and the rancid fragrance of horses and sweat upon the knights. Ugh! Frances levelled Bors a glare before she answered.

— "By singing the song I promised, and failed to deliver at his funeral."

— "Well, then, you did, let us get going now. I'm freezing my arse here !"

Something snapped in Frances, and she shouted at him.

— "I'm not detaining you, you are free to go as you please !"

Bors was too drunk to keep his temper in check, and he yelled right back at her.

— "You are an infuriating woman ! I wonder how Tristan didn't kill you."

Blood drained from Frances' face, remembering the day he almost had. Remembering the loving and passionate kiss he'd given her before… before hell. Straightening, the young woman gave the knight such a withering glare that he winced.

— "How can you all look so unaffected ? Tristan is dead, he died to protect us ! Protecting me, on the battlefield"

— "As you protected him" came Dagonet's calm voice.

— "As if he needed protection," came her derisive reply.

Somehow, Dagonet's intervention calmed Bors who merely grumbled in a corner. Seeing that quiet was restored, the tall knight turned to Frances.

— "I've seen you fight together, after his horse fell. It was…"

Before he could find the words, Galahad bounced at the memory, stumbling a little.

— "Incredible ! I've seen you too, it was like a dance. And I nearly got my head chopped off so I had to kill a Saxon, and many after that and I lost sight of you two"

Lancelot snorted at that, a regretful smile quirking his lips.

— "Damn, I missed it."

— "You were too busy flirting with Guinevere, uh ?"

Her quip held a dangerous edge that Lancelot caught easily despite his inebriated state.

— "No lady, I was only saving her life."

Frances' quick wit was resurfacing, and he wondered if he didn't prefer when she was depressed. Galahad, utterly drunk, had lost the course of conversation and was mumbling in a corner, his eyes stuck on Tristan's Dao planted on his grave.

— "We never saw eye to eye, but he deserved a long life, maybe a wife, and children…"

Frances reached for him, a gentle contact on his arm in hopes to anchor him to reality.

— "You all do. But Tristan didn't want it"

Galahad dropped his head aside, his dark curls touching Frances' red waves as he rested his brow upon her shoulder. Dark and fire mingled for a moment of reverence shared over the fallen warrior.

— "Why do you say that?"

— "Because he said so."

A short moment of silence spread on the hill, the sunset sending its reddish colours to paint the worlds in crimson hues. All the knights reflected on that revelation, some of them wondering if Tristan had been crazy, or if his unimpaired vision of reality applied to them as well. At last, it was Dagonet who broke the silence, his strong voice carrying in the wind.

— "We all owe him our life, one way or another. Let us honour it"

Gawain stepped forward, shaking the pup to remove him from Frances' shoulder. The young woman exhaled a sigh in relief; his weight had been quite a strain on her sore upper back. The blond knight presented her with the bow he'd been holding to.

— "This is Tristan's bow. Will you care for it on his behalf ?"

Frances's breath caught in her throat, her chest painfully throbbing from the onslaught of emotions. Tristan's bow; one of his most precious belonging. And they offered it to her! She that could not shoot as accurately as them on foot, let alone on horseback. She could never measure up to the task of such a weapon! She didn't know how to string it, how to care for it, how to… A shrill cry pierced the air, and Frances lifted her eyes to the sky. Lady Hawk was circling the cemetery, once, twice, and eventually, a third time.

Then she left, her powerful wings taking her away forever from her master, and this forsaken place. Frances smiled, wishing a very fond farewell to the bird who's rendered all of this possible, by marking her trustworthy in the first place. It seemed like a lifetime ago, when it was, in truth, just a few weeks past. Gawain still held the bow, and Frances reached for it, her decision made by a bird.

— "Aye. I will gladly honour his memory. Thank you Gawain. All of you"

The next month brought a change of scenery. Most of the wall's inhabitants had relocated, for the week, to the seaside in honour to Arthur and Guinevere's wedding. The former commander, and future King, had once more shown wisdom. After days of burials, and reorganising the fort to handle the losses, he had organised festivities to lighten up his people. They'd lost so much, and this little trip to seal his fate, as well at the Pict community, was welcomed heartily.

Frances, for one, wasn't one to complain. She had even been able to mount by herself, confiding the reins to Gawain, Galahad or Dagonet as they travelled. Leaving the fort behind, she couldn't help but sigh in relief. Tristan's memory was everywhere. In the tavern, in the bath house, in the dark corridors of the knight's quarters. Every time she saw a shadow, every time someone ate an apple, her heart clenched painfully. She couldn't believe couldn't accept his death. He'd been her anchor from the first moment she had set foot on this blasted island, in this blasted period. And even though the other knights took care of her – she was grateful for it since she wouldn't do much on her own – she missed Tristan's constant presence. Anything she noted, she wanted to discuss with him. Every time she suspected something, or watched Guinevere's flirting with Lancelot, she thought of him. Her mind kept running in circles, refusing to acknowledge the absence of the scout beside her. Lady Hawk, too, had disappeared. It was her only consolation. They were both free.

She'd spent some time with Arthur, an awful lot, devising, thinking, challenging his ideas, devising strategies for his future kingdom. Not that she would admit it, but it prevented her from spending too much time in the tavern. And the intellectual challenge helped her mind. More often than not, Arthur dismissed her proposals; too unattainable, too advanced, too difficult to enforce. Still, her input forced him to think outside the box. Sometimes, too tired to work, they ended up drinking wine, and reminiscing. He usually dragged her back to her room, especially when Guinevere showed up. Still, Arthur couldn't miss that Frances was more subdued. Her usual wit was missing. The idea to marry on the seaside was as much for her as for the rest of his people. He couldn't miss how the mere mention of the Ocean had lightened up her countenance at once.

So when they camped near a village perched on a cliff, Frances knew what she had to do. For miles, the sea breeze had been taunting her, coaxing her to come closer, soothing her heartache. As soon as Galahad had retrieved her horse, she set off for the coast. Taking the fisher's trail down to the beach, Frances breathed deeply. Her shoulder was still a mess; muscles and tendons having healed improperly, scars red and ugly on her upper chest. Albeit she couldn't lift her arm nor move it backwards, she didn't care much for it; it would all be repaired when she returned home. It gave her an idea, though, of what people suffered in this unforgiving world. At last, her feet touched the sand, the strong roll of the waves welcoming her.

Frances took her time, studying the currents, evaluating the tide – coming in - before she stripped to her shift and ventured into the endless sea. The waves were strong, but not strong enough to be dangerous. Of course, the ice-cold water - it probably wasn't over 10°C - caused the young woman to release a string of French curses. A huge wave suddenly came at her, and she met the wall of water with her good shoulder bent forward. The position fended the wave easily, the subsequent pain was more difficult to handle. Fortunately, the icy water turned it soon to a dull ache, and very soon, she was drenched. Frances released her hold on the ground, and surrendered control. The waves carried her around, trying to get her back to the beach, but she wouldn't let them. As time passed, sea salt filled her nostrils, the marvellous feeling of the sea surrounding her like a cocoon, its freezing temperature numbing the ached of her destroyed shoulder.

For a long time, Frances allowed the Ocean to cure her ailments, until she felt that her life was ebbing away. The intense cold was seeping into her bones; she needed to get back. The water dragged her to the shore, its gentle caress warning her that, if she didn't wish to live anymore, it would swallow her whole. The Ocean would take care of her. Frances caught sight of her dress, left in a pile ashore. The tide had gone in, threatening to wash her dress away from the sand. Retreating, the young woman forced her numb legs to move. She felt… washed, clean. Much cleaner than after this dreadful battle. The men she'd killed still haunted her dreams, but less than Helm's deep victims. She was starting to get used to it; to killing. Her disgust still lingered. For each man whose life she ended, a piece of her soul was eaten away by the guilt.

As the waves crashed on her legs, pushing her to the beach, Frances's gaze suddenly caught a lone form beside her dress. Broad shoulders encased in a vest of leather, shaggy mane hiding his eyes, slicing an apple with a dagger. Tristan's piercing eyes followed her as she struggled to reach the beach, a silent reprobation shining in his gaze. But then, just as she was about to smile to quell his anger, he disappeared. His in place, nothing left but a memory. Frances started, wondering if this impromptu sea bath had washed her away from her stubbornness. Tristan was no more. She needed to let go, to honour his memory rather than wishing him here. She needed to accept he'd died a hero, and saved so many lives. Maybe he was happy, up there, meeting his end with bravado. Tristan was now, a memory. His teachings would remain, Galahad's proficiency with a bow, Gawain's knife-throwing skills, and plenty of other things he'd shared. But from now on, Frances needed to move on. His body had been committed to the earth, his spirit freed. Tristan was dead.

Frances didn't have time to linger on the thought as yelling could be heard on top of the cliff. Up there stood Galahad and Gawain, faces ashen, their arms shaking in anger. Dagonet, eliciting to stay silent, was darting down the trail to join her, incredibly fast on his feet. Nothing like Tristan, of course, but… The young woman shrugged, wondering why the hell those two knights were screaming about until the healer joined her on the beach. It was just as well, she couldn't remove her shift with the limited span of her stupid left arm. A quick glance at Dagonet caused her to wonder what had panicked the knight so, but she didn't give him time to react.

— "Well met, Dagonet. Would you mind helping me dress ? This blasted shoulder doesn't want to cooperate."

The knight started, frozen in place for a moment. Then he nodded, and helped her put on her dress as his gaze lingered ashore. He was the best knight ever, never taking a peek, never taking advantage of a woman. What a great man ! When, at last, he rolled her up in a blanket, Frances smiled at him.

— "Thank you, this is very thoughtful."

Dagonet snorted at that, giving her a piece of his healer's mind.

— "What were you thinking ? Jumping into the sea with your injured shoulder, and this temperature ?"

— "It helps. The cold numbs the pain, and the ocean always soothed my mind. It gives me some perspective."

Dagonet gave her a startled look.

— "You know how to swim ?"

— "Of course, I'm not dumb."

The young woman sat, her gaze lost in the waves until the tall knight settled beside her, his berating forgotten.

— "Did it work ?"

— "A little"

A song formed in her mind, the lyrics so true that it tumbled from her lips immediately. And for once, Frances didn't feel self-conscious to be singing in front of somebody else. She had to get it out of her system.

"Where do we go from here?[2]  
Where do we go from here?  
The battle's done,  
And we kind of won  
So we sound our victory cheer

Where do we go from here?  
Why is the path unclear?  
When we know home is near  
Understand  
We'll go hand in hand  
But we'll walk alone in fear

Tell me  
Where do we go from here?  
When does the end appear?  
When do the trumpets cheer?  
The curtains close  
On a kiss god knows  
We can tell the end is near." 

There, she'd said it. The curtains closed on a kiss, and she didn't know what to make of it. Damn, this Buffy musical was so good it imposed itself at the least possible moment. Frances shared a thought for Joss Whedon and his incredible masterpiece. Sometime, the Keeper of Time felt very much like Buffy did, chosen by higher powers and unable to get free. Except that the Valar were much better bosses than the Powers that Be.

Hopefully, Dagonet couldn't understand the words she sang. English was not a language yet, wasn't it ?

— "It is a very sad song, Frances. What does it mean ?"

Damn.

— "It means the battle is won, for the moment, and I have no idea where to go from there."

The tall knight nodded, his face pensive. If he expected her to speak more, nothing came, hence his pointed questions.

— "This is about Tristan, isn't it ?"

Frances sighed.

— "Yes"

If there's anything she'd learnt from the scout, it was that monosyllabic responses and short sentences always made the trick to deter questioning. Unless you faced a compassionate Dagonet, that is.

— "I'll be blunt, since you seem intent on keeping your ailments close to your chest. I've seen the embrace he gave you before the battle."

The word 'kiss' was not uttered, but it hung in the air nonetheless. Frances's alarmed expression compelled him to add:

— "I believe I was the only one."

Another heart-wrenching sight escaped her lips before she turned to him fully, hazel eyes clouded by doubt and self-loathing.

— "Tell me Dagonet, how can I claim to be faithful when I actually loved it, uh ? It felt… right."

— "I don't know," was his truthful answer. "But the affection you had was true. You may still love your betrothed, but what you gave Tristan was worth it, and what he gave you in return was more than I have ever seen from him"

Dagonet nearly bit his tongue to refrain from telling her the whole truth. That Tristan loved her, fully and hopelessly. At this point, it could only bring more hurt. His friend was no more, burnt to the ground, his love buried with him.

— "My heart is a traitor."

The tall knight reached for her uninjured shoulder, his fingers enclosing the tiny spot where her collarbone connected with the muscles.

— "Your heart is true. There are many types of love, Frances. Do not dismiss it, do not desecrate it nor deny it."

His voice was solemn, his plea an order.

— "Come now, you'll catch your death if you stay here, and Gawain and Galahad will have my hide."

Frances squinted her eyes, seemingly amused by the knight's antics.

— "Is that what they were yelling about ?"

— "Quite. I heard 'crazy', 'pure madness' 'stupid woman' and other colourful words on the cliff. Thought I'd have a look myself."

— "And what did you find ?"

— "A selkie"

A shocked look crossed her face, soon replaced by the impassive mask he's seen on Tristan more often than not. Selkies belonged to the Irish folklore, stories of seals that took human form to roam the earth, find a lover, and plunge back into the sea afterwards. Leaving behind, a broken-hearted man… That Dagonet would have heard about it spoke of his broad mind and education. That he would compare her short, but intense passage with the knights to a selkie's errand, well. It left a sour taste in her mouth. Yet, she couldn't fault him for the comparison. Was he angry at her actions, at the effect she'd had on his friends ? On Tristan ? Better not to ask, she couldn't handle the response anyway.

Now was the time, maybe, to get back to the sea of her life.

* * *

[1] Elegia, K's Choice

[2] Once more with feeling, Buffy the Vampire slayer


	28. An alliance for Britain

**_Hey. Last chapter to wrap this up before the sequel starts._**

**_Koba: Yes you're right, Frances has been behaving rather rashly. And like a child (she's only 23, a young age in the 21st century). I admit that I'm fed up with OCs that always do the right thing. She's angry, and overwhelmed by guilt. I would find it unnatural if she stayed poised and wise. I'm glad you picked up on her mood._**

**_And damn, crying at work. I'm sorry I was the cause of it but it has happened to me as well in the past. :)_**

The first notes of the piano echoed in her ears and Frances was surprised altogether. She couldn't recall whose artist it was, nor when she'd copied that particular song into her mp3 player, but it strangely fit her mood. Melancholy. How fitting that the last song that Tristan had played on the futuristic device would be one of separation. How ironic that he couldn't even understand the words. Yet… Tristan had been a sensitive man. He, better than anyone, could have picked up the mood of this song. Despite the words, the music spoke by itself. It was oddly soothing, if edged with sadness, to hear English again. It felt like home, somehow.

So Frances walked, slowly, among the trees that hung above the shoreline as she soaked into the music.

"I had to find you  
Tell you I need you  
Tell you I set you apart

Tell me your secrets  
And ask me your questions  
Oh let's go back to the start  
Running in circles, coming up tails  
Heads on a science apart

Nobody said it was easy  
It's such a shame for us to part  
Nobody said it was easy  
No one ever said it would be this hard  
Oh take me back to the start."[1]

By the time the last notes of the piano died, Frances' cheeks were damp with tears. Blasted scout, what a message he'd left unknowingly! Blasted machine, for playing the last song he'd heard before his death. Blasted place, where English was not even a language yet ! Historians would kill to be in her place, to witness the great wedding of Arthur and Guinevere, but Frances couldn't help but feel homesick. She'd done her part and lost herself on the way. Legolas' shining presence and middle earth's beautiful landscapes were but a memory now. She wondered, after all the horrors Aragorn, and Legolas had seen, why they remained to sturdy. So… sane ? Perhaps middle earth was a place of magic altogether, where the everlasting presence of the Valar protected human and elf's mind altogether from decay. She wasn't sure, but this mission here, in the fifth century, had been more crippling than anything she'd lived in middle earth.

And the knights… the Picts, the villagers. All of them a little crazy, in their own way. How could they not be when beating one's child for disobedience was still the norm ? When a whore being murdered was not a rare occurrence ? When women and children were reduced to starving whenever their men died ? No orphanage, no public care, no healing for free… and slaves, whether official or unofficial, were not frowned upon. Arthur himself wore a haunted look, the proud father of a brood of knights whose souls had been ripped apart under his care. How wretched, to bestow upon him the burden to watch his wards die on the call of duty, and then reveal to him that Rome – the very reason he bore it without rebelling – was but a fantasy.

No, this place could only kill her slowly. Frances didn't have the guts to live here. She'd miss them, for sure. Galahad's puppy eyes, Gawain's bear hugs, Lancelot's antics, Dagonet's quiet presence… even Bors' boisterous laugh. But the time to go was drawing near; she could feel it in her bones. Always the same conflict ; to abandon the ones she loved. To think they would go on with their lives, forget about her, that she'd become no more than a memory tore at her heart. Someday, she would read about them in specialised websites and antique books. Someday, legends would be written about them, twisting reality so much that they would become them different people. Such was the will of the Valar. She was the Keeper of Time, her mission was accomplished. Or failed. Either way, it was the end.

Her steps took her deeper into the forest, searching for solace amidst the trees that braved the harsh winds of the coast. There was none to be found, for instead, she stumbled upon a gathering of Picts. Women, children, and ordinary men attended daily chores in the makeshift camp, blue paint absent for they only wore it to fight. Wary eyes followed her as she tread through the camp, curious about these people who had harassed the knights to reclaim their land. Who could fault them for trying ? After all, the French resistance had fought with the same fervour during occupation in World War II. Wondering once more how those people – Picts and Britons under Roman rule – would merge the gap between, she caught sight of Merlin walking to her.

— "Mae Govanenn[2], Keeper of Time"

The elvish greeting, to mark her as the messenger of the Valar, no doubt.

— "Greetings, Merlin"

— "Perhaps it is time now to correct this pronunciation of yours. My real name is Myrddin. Merlin is what the Romans called me, for lack of better understanding of the Pict tongue"

Frances turned the name around in her mouth, amused at the everlasting problem of foreign languages. Myrrdin. Still, the legends would never quote him as such.

— "And Merlin is the name by which you will be remembered, Myrrdin. And what of Guinevere ? Had her name been butchered as well ?"

— "No, but I do call her Gwen when my heart yearns for familial ties to supplant those of duty."

A fond expression softened Merlin's sharp angles, and Frances couldn't help but scowl at the reminder of her last encounter with his daughter. Her manipulation of Arthur's feelings didn't abide with her ethics.

— "Be thankful she is alive," she ground. "Without Lancelot, she would be dead."

Frances' fist shook; Lancelot was alive because Merlin's voice – echoing in her head – had prevented her, at the very last moment, to save Tristan.

— "I am grateful you heeded my warning."

The young woman snorted.

— "You didn't make it easy to ignore, Myrddin. I have hated you for issuing it. For the record, if you could return the favour and keep an eye on Guinevere, I'd be grateful."

The magician scowled.

— "She is to be Queen. Do not let your anger alter your judgement, Keeper of Time."

— "I do not… !"

Frances exhaled slowly, keeping her temper in check. It was no use defending herself on those accusations if she wanted Merlin to hear her.

— "How much do you know about the future, Myrrdin?"

His eyes lifted to the sky for a moment, as if searching his memories.

— "Not much, except that I must work to ensure that earth will not be prey to another set of enemies."

— "What about Arthurian legends ?" Frances prodded. "Anything about the fall of the Kingdom ? Arthur's death ?"

— "No, I have no memories of it, I probably erased it before coming down."

Frances nodded. Time was a fleeting thing, one that the Ascended could roam at will in their ethereal form. But as a human, knowing the future could overload the mind and cause harm, preventing people from accomplishing their destinies. It made sense that, in his wisdom, Myrddin would have purposely removed this knowledge from his memory. Still, she needed to issue the warning to someone who could understand its implications.

— "Guinevere and Lancelot are the reason why the Kingdom falls. Even now, they are already drawn to each other. Should they succumb to their infatuation, they'd condemn Arthur"

Soaking in this new information, the leader of the Picts walked in silence, leading her to a path hidden under the trees where the wind was but a murmur. For a long time, he stayed silent, until the sea appeared below their very feet. Then, as the waves gently crashed on the cliff side, Merlin turned to her.

— "Our free will is sometimes the only thing that we have when it comes to leaving a print in this world."

Frances huffed, irked by the cryptic wisdom that felt so empty. No philosophy would ever compensate the death of a good man, of a good friend. Hence the contempt in her voice as she answered.

— "Let's hope that Guinevere's choices don't erase all the sacrifices I've made."

— "You are bitter, Keeper of Time. I understand. It is a heavy burden you carry."

There was much sadness contained in his ageless eyes. An ancient being, from the lost city of Atlantis, who's chosen to incarnate in the flesh for the betterment of men. He too must have faced difficult choices in his long years. Anger fled her, pouring down to the sea, swallowed and cast away by the waves. Despair remained, though, and Frances sighed.

— "For once, I'd like to do what's right for me, and not for the world."

A slight smile crooked Merlin's lips.

— "That time may yet come, do not despair."

Frances sighed, unconvinced.

— "May your words be true, Myrrdin."

— "Someday, they will. Namarië, Keeper of Time[3]"

The mysterious leader addressed her a pointed look and turned around, leaving her on the cliff side.

— "Namarië, Myrrdin of the Alterans"

The wedding was beautiful, held in a sacred circle above the sea. The great standing stones emphasised the solemnity of Merlin's words as they echoed above the surroundings hills, simple and meaningful. A pagan ceremony, not a hint of Christianity in sight. Would Arthur's faith considered this marriage valid ? How about his feelings ? Despite the fantastic setting, Frances couldn't help but worry. About this, and about the future of his kingdom, for at her arm stood Lancelot, his eyes hungered by the sight of the lovely Guinevere. In her floating dress, flower in her hair, she was a beautiful Queen. Arthur's smile, though, didn't reach his eyes when he kissed her. And a shiver ran through Frances' spine when the Pict enclosed her fingers around Excalibur's hilt. She didn't like it one bit, this alliance for Britain.

Bors let out a boisterous war cry, and many around them doubled him by yelling Arthur's name. Frances couldn't lift her arms up, but she answered with as much fervour as she could to greet their new King. As arrows of fire ran into the sky, Bors kissed Vanora vehemently, stating that now, he would have to marry his little flower. She slapped him back on the arm with a "who said I'd have you", that made Frances laugh. One true, genuine laugh. The first one since Tristan's death.

Lancelot turned to her, dark eyes shining with mirth. Oh, she knew that mischievous expression, and tackled him instantly.

— "If you kiss me again Lancelot, I swear I'll wear your balls as a necklace."

Bors's explosive laughter was met with a few more. Gawain, for one, barely contained his tears at her retort.

— "You never disappoint, fiery lady."

— "You certainly do not," said Lancelot with a sigh.

His arm tugged at hers as the people started to disperse around the hill. Ever since the battle, Lancelot had been by her side, taking care of her. She wondered if his guilt was to blame, and bend closer to him as they walked.

— "While we're here, sharing nice feelings and all, you don't have to be my companion because I took this bolt. You owe me nothing, Lancelot. I chose my fate."

The knight paused, shoulder stiffening.

— "I am wounded."

— "We all are."

This time, dark eyebrows got lost into his dark locks. That was such a loaded statement, one too heavy to discuss at a wedding.

— "Do you not appreciate my company ?"

This time, Frances took her time before answering. Now that it was clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, romantically wise, Lancelot had somehow opened up to her. And the genuine knight was nowhere as annoying as the flirty one.

— "Strangely, I do. I just do not wish it to be an obligation."

— "No obligation, fiery lady. You are my friend, I'm happy to be by your side."

— "Thank you, Lancelot, this is actually very sweet."

Then she lifted a tentative hand to pat his cheek, something improbable such had been the roller coaster of their relationship in the past.

— "You're a good man, below this flirty exterior, you know ?"

The knight snorted.

— "Of course, I know. I'm lovable in every way."

Frances chuckled, and they slowly but surely descended in the large spot of grass that had been prepared for the festivities. Tents sprouted like mushrooms, banners with the dragon floated in the wind, and tables had been erected to welcome the roasts presently cooked on the numerous fires. It was a magnificent sight, a historical one that would never be recorded anywhere. Of course, there were musicians, minstrels that might sing of it for years before it fell into oblivion. No ladies of the court with fluffy gowns, no castle or dais, no thrones. It was a simple, genuine celebration for people to remember why they lived still. One that no amount of lace, silk and brocade could ever rival.

A line of people formed from the top of the hill to welcome the royal couple. Lancelot and Frances joined their friends, at the very bottom, awaiting King Arthur and Queen Guinevere to join the feast. An important moment, where Picts, Britons and Knights alike awaited their new sire. The very first official act of reconciliation.

Frances still wore the burgundy dress from the knight's celebration day; she had no other. Vanora had insisted, once more, to do her hair, choosing to leave most of it down to hide the horrible scar exposed by the low neckline. The mother of eleven had blanched at seeing it so blatantly exposed - the bandage was peeled off - but Frances has soothed her mind, telling her it would get better in time. That her betrothed wouldn't mind a scarred woman for it meant she had lived to see another day. Vanora had muttered something about 'weird strangers' and had carefully avoided touching the place where flesh and bone had not mended yet. Still, the tavern woman had worked her magic again; Frances knew she looked good when she caught the other's admirative gaze. Bless that woman for being so nice to her. Deep in her heart, she wondered if Tristan would have complimented her. What a stupid notion ! He had never said anything about her dress, or looks. The scout wasn't one to flatter.

One single lustful look from Lancelot to the royal couple called Frances back to reality, and she suddenly grabbed the knight's arm forcefully.

— "Lancelot. Please don't break Arthur's heart. Be careful"

— "Whatever do you mean Frances ?" he murmured.

Frances frowned, reluctant to speak about Guinevere. The mere mention of an affair with her could be the very same push that could steer him in this direction. If she so badly wanted to prevent that particular fiasco, better to appeal to Lancelot's loyalty than to warn the knight against it. She feared to create the very same situation she wanted to avoid, to plant the seed in his mind. Biting her lip, she stuttered slightly.

— "Just. He's hurt as well, as much as you all are. He will need you by his side, he will need your loyalty to be a good King, to know he can trust you. He can't do it on his own."

— "I've always been loyal to him," was his sincere reply.

— "You'll be his pillar."

Something akin to disappointment passed into Lancelot's eyes as he stared down at her.

— "Is that why you saved me ?"

— "I had many reasons to save you."

His gaze was redirected to the couple who approached.

— "Right. Keep your secrets, seer"

The window of opportunity closed at the very moment Guinevere caught Lancelot's gaze. Pleasantries were exchanged, none of them as heated as the look that passed between them, and Frances felt like banging her head on a board. Repeatedly. Unfortunately, Arthur was standing before her, his commanding presence asking for her attention. She couldn't give away her suspicions, not now. Not on their wedding day. Not ever ? Merlin would have to be the sole recipient of the warning, since she couldn't confide in anybody else on the matter.

— "Lady knight," came Arthur's deep voice. "You have my thanks for attending our wedding. You would be very welcome to stay, should you choose to be part of the community of knights"

Frances refrained from uttering a sarcastic reply. Would Guinevere make her feel welcome ? She very doubted that. Instead, she chose to give the new King a genuine smile of her own.

— "I couldn't have missed such a historic event for the world, dear Arthur. It was my pleasure."

He caught her double meaning all too well, his green eyes disappointed.

— "But you will not stay."

The young woman caught his hand, her fingers pressing his own in an affectionate gesture. His warmth felt foreign on her cold skin; she had trouble regulating her temperature ever since the battle. Probably a side effect from the exhaustion.

— "I feel the time is drawing near for me, Arthur. I am loath to part from all of you, but my duty calls me elsewhere."

The tall man nodded in acceptance. No one better than him understood the meaning of duty. And if a sly glance from Guinevere – she was still wary of Frances after their latest encounter – remained partly unnoticed, he couldn't miss her insistent tug on his arm.

— "You will keep a dance for me, lady knight ?"

— "Be sure of it," she told him as he was dragged way.

Way to go, Frances ! she sighed as she glared at Guinevere's back. Make an enemy of the new Queen even before she is crowned. Her self-flogging was short-lived, as Lancelot, whom she had absolutely forgotten, lifted an elegant eyebrow in her direction.

— "You don't seem to love the Queen very much."

Her answer came out without a filter.

— "That's right, I don't."

— "Well, I rather do. She's a good fighter and knows what she wants. She won't crawl at Arthur's feet"

'Of course you do, you idiot!', she felt like yelling at him. But she only scoffed this time, refusing to let her anger get the best of her.

— "If you'd been more attuned to the fight and less to her form, I wouldn't have had to save your sorry ass from that bolt ! Stay away from that woman, she's trouble."

And just like that, she walked away in the direction of the knight's table where Vanora acted as the general of her troops. The kids were running everywhere, grabbing food here and there and returning to headquarters – the table and their mother - to report on the state of the youngest ones. Damn, that woman knew how to run a household, manage eleven kids, and keep Bors in line. She had her utmost respect. Truth be told, Frances had never been at ease with women. She'd grown up with seven boys, her brothers and the neighbour's. Men, she knew how to handle. But women ? She'd mistakenly trusted friends, back home, until they turned back on her in high school, and she had realised that two out of three actually mocked her anytime her back was turned. Ever since, she was wary of women. But Vanora… she bestowed her motherly love to anyone, even if she was barely older than the Keeper of Time. Her warmth felt good, her smiles genuine, and her temper more frightening than a dragon's wrath. She would miss her.

The sun had kissed the surface of the sea a long time ago, yet no one showed signs of wanting to turn in. Night had settled, music swayed from group to group, some Picts attempted a few traditional songs before another set of musicians took over. Their melodies were so foreign to Frances' ears, but lovely. The voices seemed to come from the depth of earth itself, as if their goddess spoke through the performers. The Keeper of Time felt humbled by those women, knowing that she was greatly outmatched in her skills. Of course she could sing quite beautifully. But THIS, this was altogether otherworldly. So deep, so down to earth, almost magic.

As they sat at the knight's tables, Bors refilled her goblet many a time. She was slightly tipsy now, and when Galahad pulled her to her feet to dance – once more – in a circle in his inebriated state, she couldn't help but chuckle at his enthusiasm. Sweet, sweet Galahad and his smile. He held onto her like a drowning kid, his washed blue eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol until the circle caused her to change partner. Despite the pain on her shoulder, she had been dragged away by all the knights this evening. Expect for Bors, who could not keep his hands away from Vanora. Gawain had twirled her around, mindful of her arm. He laughed, and smiled, but his eyes lingered on a blond-haired lady. Frances was just a bait to call her attention – he sheepishly admitted – and she laughed it off when he eventually found the gall to speak to said lady. Good old Gawain. Dagonet followed, sweet but sturdy – and worried as his hands barely touched her. Still, his presence gave her solace; like the warmth of an elder brother watching over her. Despite being tipsy, his arms kept her grounded. Lancelot… was Lancelot – she walked away after half the dance only, fed up with him. How she longed to dance with Tristan and his intoxicating presence… to feel the fabric of his tunic clenched around her fingers, his beating heart under her palm, the intensity of his gaze upon her face. Would he have danced ? Maybe not. And he was dead, lost to this world. Sigh.

Her thoughts turned to her betrothed. Legolas surely would have led her all night, dancing merrily at those otherwordly songs, his steps light on the ground, his blond hair shining golden across the fire, his glow shining through his skin as he laughed. Just as she was about to regain her seat at the table, Arthur appeared before her.

— "May I have this dance, my lady ?"

Frances' cheeks reddened slightly. Such a formal address ! by the groom himself on a one dance, those were scarce. And didn't he look dashing this evening ! He'd shed the Roman armour he wore at the ceremony for an outer jerkin, embroidered at the hem and collar. The absence of war attire only emphasised his new title. He was now King, not a commander of the Roman army. And he bore it with grace. The young woman curtsied, feeling every bit the subject in awe of her new King. His hands landed on her arms at once, his face alarmed.

— "Why do you bow to me, lady knight ? Are we not friends ?"

Frances straightened, giving him a dazzling smile.

— "I wanted to greet you truthfully, because you deserve a little bit of formality at least once. You are now King, and it could be no other than you. I give my respect heartily"

Arthur slightly coloured at that, grateful that the light was so dim, now. Then he gathered the woman in his arms and twirled her around, careful to no jolt her shoulder as he did so. They'd never been so close, not since she'd showed up, and he discovered that she was like any other woman to the touch. A little slender, soft skin a tad too cold, the contact just plush enough to give away her gender. But her movements were as controlled as Guinevere's were; the mark of a warrior. And a little stiff as she stumbled slightly to the steps, probably from exhaustion. In the end, Arthur tightened his hold on her, at loss for words, and they found a slow rhythm to which they only swayed gently. They shared many glances, but didn't talk. Everything had been said already. She only smiled softly, enjoying his proximity as he enjoyed hers. Friendship and trust. A tentative and compassionate moment between two people unsure of their future endeavours. An understanding that took them out of time.

Until her collarbone started shining with an eerie blue light that was altogether absolutely unnatural. Arthur started, and she stopped swaying altogether. The young woman gasped, her hand reaching for the necklace hidden in her décolletage.

— "Damn. I am being called home."

Arthur froze, struck by the reality of the necklace's magic. All this time he'd accepted her as the Keeper of Time. But not once he had questioned how she'd come to cross their path, and the actual workings of such a mission. Now stood the evidence of her God's magic, shining under his very eyes.

— "Is this how you travel ?

Frances nodded tentatively, trying to gauge his reaction. But instead of freaking out, Arthur actually sighed.

— "It is so soon."

Frances smiled sadly, her eyes meeting his. She didn't hold back this time, her expression open for him to see. Arthur had no knowledge of what awaited her on the other side, but he could plainly see that despite the pain, despite the heartache and all her complains about the fifth century and this place, she wasn't ready. And truth be told, he wasn't either. She'd been there to support him, and save his knights' lives during the last days of his servitude. Her reassurance, her knowledge of the future, her views had sustained him on this new path. And now… now he would be truly and utterly alone with his ideal.

— "Can it wait tomorrow ?"

The young woman frowned, her hazel eyes terrified of what it entailed.

— "I don't know. I have never tried to disobey. Wouldn't dream of it"

Arthur straightened, offering his arm soothingly.

— "Your Gods are calling. Let us not offend them. I have, for my part, only thanks to convey for bringing you here."

A watery smile answered his statement, and the new King took a moment to study his friend. The dark circles under her eyes had receded only barely; the consequence of blood loss and heartache. Her wound that marred her collarbone restrained her movements and pained her; he could see it in her gait. And her big, hazel eyes held so much sadness that he felt like weeping. This world had broken her, just as he had broken himself and his knights. Maybe she could heal in her own. It was easier to let go that way, to think she would be happier away from them. Just as he kept hoping his brothers in arms were happier in heaven. They deserved peace, so did she.

— "Thank you, Arthur. It means a lot to me."

— "Come, let us assemble the knights to you can say your farewells."

Her arm trembled against his, and he secured his other hand over hers. It was sometimes difficult to be reasonable; he was King now. More than ever, he would have to set the example. And it started now, on his wedding day. A pity.

Arthur asked Lancelot to gather the knights, and even if Gawain and Galahad seemed worse for wear, it didn't take long for them to unite at the table. Then he announced that Frances would leave at first light on the morrow, that she was needed elsewhere. They might have looked less dejected had he stabbed the knights himself. Grumbles and protests were heard; couldn't it wait ? Couldn't she ask to stay with them ? Couldn't… She handled them with tears in her eyes, but a resolute face. It reminded him so much of the fateful evening, the one he'd found them drinking to their freedom only to enrol them in a suicide mission.

As usual, Dagonet was the first to come round. He greeted the lady a very fond farewell, and she hugged the tall knight tightly before releasing him. Bors and Vanora jumped her bones a moment later, a little too tight for she released a whimper of pain. Dagonet slapped Bors on the back of his head, to which the knight grumbled an apology before going away. By then, Frances was sobbing in Vanora's arms, shaking silently as the red head held her. At last, Gawain had had enough and gathered the young woman into his arms, bestowing a brotherly hug and whispering something that made her laugh. Galahad eventually joined him, like a set of brothers saying farewell to a beloved sister. The youngest knight was fairly drunk at this time, and he watched as the situation reversed. Frances gently caressed his hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. It took all of Gawain's force of persuasion for him to let go; the alcohol didn't help.

Arthur's heart clenched at the realisation that Tristan wouldn't get the last hug. Not that he would have accepted it… wouldn't he ? Then they all stood there, a watery smile on their faces, and Arthur dragged Frances away from the celebration. Each step felt heavier than the last as they trod to her tent. In the dark, they could barely distinguish her bag. Beside it, Tristan's bow awaited its new mistress. Frances froze, and Arthur sidestepped her to pick it up. Holding the weapon reverently, he turned to her.

— "You are its guardian now, put it to good use."

Her tentative fingers grabbed the wooden weapon, claiming it as hers. And they set off for the forest, pausing on top of the hill to take one last long look at the celebration. He knew her eyes drank in the sight of the knights, all assembled at the table except for Lancelot who probably gallivanted about. Then she exhaled forcefully, and led him into the forest under the dim light.

— "I am sorry to dampen the mood."

Arthur shook his head.

— "We were going to turn in for the night. And Galahad is so drunk already I wonder how he can keep on his feet. Nay, Frances. It is time for us to part, and I am glad I got to know you."

The young woman paused to face him. Under the trees, the light was so scarce he could barely distinguish her features.

— "You have no idea how mutual this feeling is."

She grabbed both of his hands, and squeezed them tightly with her little fingers.

— "This world you dreamt of, you're the one creating it. You need to accept to lead, you will be a great King"

— "Thank you for your trust, Keeper of Time"

Tears fell down her face at his final farewell, and she was suddenly hugging him close, her arms tightly woven around his waist. She was so tiny against his tall frame, almost like a child, and he couldn't help but embrace her. They stayed awhile in the forest, sharing warmth and comfort until she untangled her limbs and took a step back, looking a little sheepish. Arthur chuckled at her expression. Sometimes, it was too easy to forget how young she was.

— "Now go, find your betrothed, marry him. Be happy, you deserve it."

A cloud was chased away by a gush of wind from the sea, and the moon casts its silver rays upon them. A look of renewed determination illuminated on her face.

— "I will find him. Farewell, Arthur"

— "Farewell, lady knight"

And she fished the necklace from her dress, its light shining brighter in the forest, casting shadows of blue like the ocean on its floor. Her hand grabbed the pendant; the light pulsating stronger and stronger in the forest. A piercing cry – a hawk – echoed in the sky, and just before the light engulfed Frances entirely, Arthur's eyes caught sight of a form beside her. Hand outstretched, the familiar silhouette seemed to reach for her. Arthur started; he would recognise his knight anywhere. Shaggy mane, braids intertwined haphazardly, a tall and strong built encased in a patched leather coat. The light became so strong that his eyes closed for fear of being blinded. And in an instant, she was gone.

When Arthur's eyes opened, there was no one in the forest but him. Nor Frances, nor his scout – was he turning mad? – were in sight. She was gone.

— "Farewell, keeper of time," he muttered in the silence. "You've been a mother, and a daughter to us all."

The End

**_And so it ends. I'm rather sad, I admit, to have reached the end of this story. Especially since Frances got along rather well with that merry band of knights. _**

**_I'm also excited because I can start posting the sequel that I hope you will like. It will be listed as a crossover between Stargate and King Arthur, although the Stargate component is mild. I hope it won't put you off, an you shouldn't need to watch the series to understand the few chapters that will be in the stargate world. (4 or 5 out of 25 chapters)_**

**_For those who want to know what happens to Frances after she gets back home, you can see 'Innocence's journey' from chapter 44 to the end. It might be a good idea since I will use notions of this chapter in the sequel, but I'll write reminders at the beginning. Maybe I can post it here as well, as a post-story chapter ? What do you think ?_**

* * *

[1] 'The scientist,' coldplay. Remember that song, you'll see it in the sequel 😊

[2] Well met in elvish (sindarin)

[3] Goodbye in elvish (quenya)


	29. The gift

_**Hey. Here is a copy, slightly remastered, of the chapter 44 of Innocence's journey. It will allow you to know what Frances is doing back home, and how she handles her love for Legolas. It will also be a good start for the sequel.**_

Frances rolled her shoulder to test its flexibility once more. After a nice shower, and eating a bar of Mars – damn she'd missed it ! -, her mirror had confirmed what she felt. The molecular restructuration had set her bones right. All her scars were but a memory; her skin flawless. Bruises, scratches, and deeper wounds had disappeared. Once more, Frances had been reconstructed from scratch.

Tristan's bow rested on her bed, out of place on her blue comforter. Life was weird. Grabbing her cell phone, she dialed Cécile's number. The tone rang twice before her cousin picked up.

— "Hey, Cess[1]. I'm back"

A relieved sigh greeted her on the line. Now that Cécile knew of her whereabouts, Frances always called before going on a mission, and right after getting back which was usually in a span of ten minutes. Such was the way of her neckace; no matter how long she traveled away, no time passed in the present. This, at least, settled her mind whenever she disappeared from earth's surface. In case she didn't make it, Cécile would relay some letters to her parents.

— "So you didn't find him?"

Trust her cousin to go straight to the point. Frances swallowed, remembering the moment she had realised her mission did not take her back to middle earth. She had been so engrossed in her rage, so rightfully despaired that she nearly threw herself from a cliff. She had stayed for hours, prostrated under the falling snow, before voices shook her out of her catatonic state. Bracing herself, Frances had eventually shaken her snow coated elvish cloak, and joined the group of travelling knights. Only to loose one of them in the end. The image of Tristan, coated with blood, smiling at her before uttering his last breath would haunt her for years. Her throat constricted for a moment.

— "Nope.", she croaked. "I landed in Britain … in all the exotic places of the world, I had to land in northern Britain in freaking winter!"

Frances' attempt at levity did not prevent her heart from churning painfully. The knights were gone from her life now, she would never see them again. And somehow, even if her time in the fifth century had been harsh, a part of her had stayed behind.

— "Damn, you must have been freezing your ass. So, meet interesting people? When was it ?"

Frances snorted. No doubt that Cécile would have a hard time believing it. Hell, she had a hard time as well, even if she landed right in the middle of the commotion, her eyes seeing, her hands touching the legend!

— "Yeah. Quite. I met King Arthur, and Merlin, Lancelot, Gawain and all the knights of the round table."

A muffled cry came from the phone, a cry covering the absence she felt at not naming Tristan. Cécile was choking on her own saliva, caught in a coughing fit.

— "No … cough cough … way! You're pulling … cough… my leg, aren't you?"

— "Er… No. And honestly, it was the least the Valar could do to make up for the disappointment…"

— "Damn it! Damn it to hell, cousin! You've actually met King Arthur and … what was the time again? It's crazy, I wish I could have been there ‼!"

— "I met Merlin as well. He's the hell of a magician"

'And a former ascended being...' she added in her mind, 'but I can't tell you about it lest I breach the non-disclosure agreement papers from the US government'. Cécile's excitement nearly tore her ear off, but her point was valid. How many historians, on earth, would have killed to be in her place? One archeologist, in particular, would have been in heaven. Frances gritted her teeth; she could not tell Daniel[2] anything, he would know something was amiss since she could not quote her sources. Trust him to know every single historian that had worked on the subject, and the title of every publication written in the span of two hundred years. Frances sighed, it sucked to not be able to share it, especially about Merlin. It confirmed many of Daniel's theories about Myrddin being an ascended being. She'd have to find a way to encourage him on this path without selling her secret.

— "You're not the only one, I guess…"

— "What? Who? Oh … whatever. Just tell me about it, and write all of it afterwards. I want to know everything…"

Needless to say, that Cécile, being a linguist as well, showered her with questions about the place, the time, the implications of the Roman empire leaving Scotland behind Adrian's wall, and the beginning of Camelot. Her enthusiasm was communicative, and for a while, Frances nearly forgot that she had NOT travelled to Arda... and that she had failed to save Tristan, the silent scout. As she explained how she had taken a bolt for Lancelot in the great battle against the Saxons, the young woman came to a realisation. She had proved her worth to the Valar, showing them that she could, despite her heartache, complete her missions. Showing them that she had chosen against her heart, to save Lancelot and let Tristan die albeit her feelings swayed the other way. The first Knight was a mandatory character for the Arthurian time and legends. Surely that could count for something, right?

She dreamt of them this night. Of the knights, of Arthur and Tristan as well, of Dagonet's calm demeanor and Galahad's outbursts. The alarm clock went flying across the room such was the shrillness of its tone. How could people invent such dreadful devices ? After spending a few weeks without technology, Frances was not ready to withstand the noisy modern world.

Getting back to school only fuelled her anger. No one remarked on her weathered skin, nor the weight she had lost in the span of a day. A day and a night ! Well, William might have mentioned it. Frances recalled with fondness how the nurse of her old boarding school had gravitated around her for a while after her return from middle earth, trying to feed her so that she could get better. Here, no one quite cared. This indifference added to the fact that she had spent a month travelling in medieval Britain without any cars, technology, tap water or boring classes, was enough to make her snap. Getting back to a stuffed, overheated room made her crazy and she spent the weekend hiking in the Vosges to make the transition easier. A long-distance call to Daniel also helped a bit; hearing news of the SGC grounded her, especially since he always forgot to hold his tongue and told him everything she had missed in Cheyenne Mountain. It was lucky they had a secure line! Somehow, his familiar babbling helped her mind switch back to reality.

Still, she felt tired. Tired of playing this theatre play again, the student on earth game, the normal girl calling her parents on week-ends. Tired of waking up in the morning to learn about material resistance, who cared about those stupid girders and their breaking point? If the roof could break over the amphiteatre at least, there'd be some action ! After three nights, she did not even hear her alarm clock anymore. Frances woke up very late, and rushed to her classes, yawning all the time. Her thoughts started spinning out of control. Was she suffering from an unknown ailment? After months in Arda, submitted to malnutrition and a major blood loss altogether, why was her body failing from such a short mission ? She was, after all, sturdier that she looked. So why was she feeling so damn exhausted after only a month battling in Britain? All right, she'd lost some blood and slept poorly. But still !

The answer came the following night, when she opened her eyes to find a tiny grey alien in front of her, and found out she was encased in a glass vertical container. Her limbs wouldn't move, but no rope restrained her. It was as if her own body did not respond to her command. Frances tried not to panic, yet how badly she wanted to! The glass wall was so close that she felt she would faint. Breathing hard, she willed her mind to start functioning again to jam her claustrophobia. Eventually, her brain took over, and she studied the sickly-looking alien that stood over a control panel a few feet away; he resembled Thor, supreme commander of the Asgardian fleet. They had met briefly in the SGC. Relief washed over her; in theory, this race was one of earth's allies. Yet, her situation left to be desired, especially since, through the window, she could discern the shape of her planet waaaaaay below.

— "Who are you?" she asked.

The tiny alien blinked his huge dark eyes, and turned to her.

— "My name is Loki"

— "An Asgardian"

The alien cocked his head to the side in an unsettling gesture, and Frances breathed slowly to calm her frantic heartbeat.

— "That is correct."

He expressed no surprise about her knowledge, did he know who she was? If so, then why had he taken her without her consent ?

— "Would you mind giving me a little freedom? I really hate being enclosed in tiny spaces."

The Asgardian studied her for a moment, his gaze roaming over her form.

— "I am afraid I cannot until you answer my questions."

— "What kind of questions?"

— "Your cells are strange, yet you are human. You might be the solution to unlocking the secrets of immortality to save my own race,"

Frances nodded. She knew of the Asgard problematic: they transferred their consciousness from clone to clone and thus were literally immortal. Except that after many generations of cloning, their bodies started to degenerate. Thor had mentioned that they actively researched for a way to revert their degenerescence. The name Loki rang a bell though, and she was pretty sure that the alien had been banned from experimenting on humans. Frances frowed; this was the reason her danger bells were ringing so loud in her head. Maybe she could she this knowledge to negotiate her freedom? Frances glanced at her reflection in the glass tube, looking at her throat ; the necklace was absent. Probably on her nightstand as she removed it for the night. That meant that Loki would not be able to access it. Phew ! Now, if she played her cards well…

— "I might have some interesting circumstances.", she stated cooly.

— "The circumstances you speak of, could they renew your whole body anew without your DNA changing?"

— "Uh?"

— "Your cells are as new and healthier than those of a newborn, but your body is twenty years of age. How to you revert the fast degenerescence of your race?"

Great, one more time, her race was denigrated because of its humanity. One could never get enough of it, it seemed! Her anger was short lived, she needed to concentrate on this new information. Apparently, the trips reconstructed her anew each time she stepped through the portal, hence making her a newborn in the body of a twenty-year-old girl. Did it increase her lifespan by twenty years then? That would surely be a nice trick.

— "How long have you been studying me?"

— "Four days already, and I cannot find the reason why you are different."

Those words shook Frances, and she yelled, surprising the alien. After all her efforts to appear normal, she' be screwed if she disappeared. She'd have her parents, school and the police on her back. What would the American government say ? The NID probably would try to get a hold of her ! God, it was such a mess !

— "Four days! You can't be serious! I can't go missing like that, people will be looking for me!"

Loki leveled her with a pointed look, as if he assessed her stupidity.

— "Fear not. I have created a clone to go through your daily routine, a clone I shall destroy when I am done, it is already failing since I programmed it a bit short."

The strange voice, calm and collected, calmed Frances down. So, on earth, she had a clone going to school in her stead. That was … nearly cool.

— "And this clone, it has my consciousness as well?"

— "Yes. It knows whatever you know, and lives like you do. I have copied your mind into it. It just contains a fail-safe and will be destroyed in time."

Frances' jaw opened, and closed. Just like that, this alien had created another her, and would kill it in the blink of an eye. The thought was disturbing at best, and frightening at worst.

— "Does your cell regenerate when the spike of energy goes through you?"

Back to business then, she thought.

— "Is that how you found me?"

— "Yes. This energy signature is known to us, but we do not have dealings with this world."

The sibylline words could mean anything from "we do not get along with the Valar" to "they kicked our asses out of their planet". But overall, it meant one important thing: Loki had knowledge of Arda! It was the Valar's energy signature that brought the alien to her, surely it meant something! Frances' mind was running so fast; deep down, she recognised this as a gift. She has passed the test and saved Lancelot from being killed, transcendenting her grief and completing her mission to allow King Arthur to build his infamous court. Now came a response in a twisted way, she was sure of it! Somehow, there was an advantage to be taken off that situation. But how? Loki was watching her warily, or so she thought for his face was unexpressive. His posture though, she could read quite well.

— "Does Thor know that you are studying humans again?"

Silence greeted her, the alien struck speechless for a moment. Before the situation got out of hand, Frances hit him with a massive argument.

— "I might have something to suggest, a deal of sorts."

— "A deal? I do not understand this word."

— "I will not tell O'Neill to relate your unusual studies to the supreme commander, and I will let you take some samples of my blood willingly. I will also tell you why I do not seem to age."

— "And what would you require in exchange?"

Frances smirked. There was nothing Loki could use regarding her anti-ageing system. As long as he didn't know about the necklace, it was safe enough. And telling him she was favoured by some Gods he knew nothing about, and that she travelled through portals and was rebuilt would not interest him. What Loki wanted was a way to regenerate his body, not build one; the cloning was more advanced in this area of expertise. But for now, he didn't know that she was a dead-end. Frances smirked.

— "Oh, I might have a little idea!"

Frances turned around in her bed, or was it damp grass? After tossing back and forth most of the night, she couldn't make sense of the contradictory signals her nerves were sending her. One minute she was in bed, safely stuffed under the covers of her bedroom, the next she felt like fresh air was blowing on her face, tangling her messy strands of hair. Saying that those double sensations were confusing was the least to say. However, something in the back of her mind told her everything she needed to know. It was the weirdest ideas of all. Yet, she remembered this odd dream, and the strange sensation to stare into her own eyes.

As the young woman was slowly woken up by the bright sunshine, the solution popped up in her sleepy brain.

— "We are two…", she murmured, opening her eyes to the world.

And then the bed and sheets disappeared, and Frances plainly woke up. Rubbing her eyes, she sat up in the grass and kept them shut for a few more minutes. She was afraid that the sheer realisation that seemed so logical in her mind one instant earlier ran away with the intake of new information. Why could it seem so normal to think that there were two of her? Now that she was awake it didn't make sense, but in her dream it seemed perfectly consistent. She hated this, when the logic of her dreams escaped her within seconds after she woke up. Repeating the sentence again and again so as not to forget it, Frances finally opened her eyes and took up her surroundings. Beside her sat her travelling bag, filled to the brim, but she had no remembrance of packing anything. Someone else had given her that bag, and wished her farewell, someone looking suspiciously like … herself!

The waves of logical thinking started to creep inside her mind when she took notice of the smells that surrounded her. The gentle breeze called to her, heavy with the very unique scent of iodine. And then she heard the waves crashing on the nearby shore. She was sitting over a grassy hill, the greenish slope covered here and there with bushes, a few trees and some shiny flowers. In the background spread the endless sea, bright blue in the morning light, a few waves creating foamy ridges here and there. A graceful white ship sailed close to the coast, going swiftly over the deep blue waters. Her eyes wide open, the young woman realised that nowhere on earth existed a ship of this crafting style. The twisted lines, the graceful bow, the bright sails said everything there was to know about it. This was an elvish ship, and there was no doubt about it!

Her heart leapt into her chest, her throat constricting. She had made it! At last, she was back! Overjoyed, Frances jumped on her feet and took off in the direction of the cliff, her nightgown flowing around her legs. Her legs pumped as they ran to the ridge, her brain eventually processing the situation; the dream started to make sense. They were indeed two of them, and she was a clone of Frances sent back by herself to prevent Legolas from leaving middle earth too soon. Deep down she knew who stood within the white sails, it could have been only him. Frances continued running at full speed to the shore, barely missing from tumbling down in her haste. The ship was not too far from the coast, he must have left a mere hour ago! As she descended the slope, her eyes noticed two familiar silhouettes.

A tall man and a stout dwarf were contemplating the view from the edge of the cliff. The man's right hand rested on the dwarf's shoulder, and his posture betrayed him. There stood Aragorn, King of men, probably watching his friend's departure to the undying lands. Even in grief the ranger had always shown kingly manners, and today was no exception. Still running down at a dreadful speed, Frances cried out for them.

— "Hey!"

Surprised, the man and his companion turned around in a smooth movement. Gimli's eyes grew wide with astonishment, and Aragorn stumbled in shock. A young redhead was running down the hill, her hair flowing behind her and playing with the wind, her cheeks rosy from the effort. There was only one woman that could actually sprint like a hell goddess in such a treacherous land, and it seemed like the Valar had given her back to them.

— "Frances! Finally! exclaimed Gimli, his mouth agape.

She smiled tentatively, before missing a step and making a face to the rock that nearly sent her flying. Aragorn's face showed disbelief at first, and then it lightened up so brightly that she could not help but grin like a fool. His pleasure at seeing her soothed his bleeding heart, and without thinking he took off and ran like a kid to reach for her. The two friends clashed into each other in a very un-kingly manner, and the ranger gathered the young woman in his arms, stopping her before she went tumbling downhill. As he laughed and kissed her forehead, she panted against him and smiled brightly.

— "It is good to see you again, Aragorn."

— "I have no words to express it."

They descended the hill, arm in arm, to greet Gimli. And then it hit him. The ranger's face fell down at the sight of the white ship making sails to the undying lands. No man's ship could ever catch up with the elvish one… She was too late. Three years, three long years he had witnessed the fading of his friend, only for her to reappear at this very moment! Legolas was gone, and he never would he know that Frances had found her way back to him.

After embracing the chattering dwarf into a friendly hug, Frances turned back to the King only to find his broken expression. As brown eyes met with the grey ones King Elessar, silence descended on the three friends.

— "It's him, isn't it?"

Gimli's head fell, his gaze strained to the ground. Beside him, Aragorn swallowed before answering gently.

— "Yes. Legolas has sailed."

Frances' words were so silent that he nearly missed them.

— "Then so it ends."

* * *

[1] Short for Cécile

[2] Daniel Jackson, from the stargate program. A passionate archeologist.

**_And the sequel is ready and posted ! 'The Lone Knight' it is called. I am so impatient to know what you think of it. The first chapter is just a prologue._**

**_There is another short story derived from this, called 'Across space and time' that takes place in the series Hannibal. Just a short variation which point of origin is Frances' clone._**


	30. Sequel is up and running

Dearest readers,

the sequel of All Hail to the King had changed categories recently.

It is called "The lone knight" and can now be found in the crossover section between King Arthur and Stargate SG1 (TV section).

I hope you enjoy.

Cheers

d'elfe


	31. Remastered story :)

**_Hello everyone, _**

**_I have decided to review this entire story because it lacks certain moments that keep popping up into my head. Therefore, I will review chapters one by one, and add - reviewed in the title so that you know where you stand regarding the process. Today we stand at 20._**

**_For the record, you're seing this now because I divided the former 18 -19 -20 chapters into more to add plenty of infos. Hence the need to add one more chapter centered on music.  
_**

**_**_I'm sorry for those following me, each time I'm posting a new chapter Fanfiction is placing it in the last position. Since I have to replace it in the text afterwards, it always sends a message that will direct you here instead of the new chapter. I didn't find a way around it yet._**_**

**_As usual, don't hesitate to tell me your thoughts ! Cheers._**

**_d'elfe_**


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